


So You Accidentally Married a Mando

by urisarang



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Equally driven by plot and my self indulgent need for hand touching, Eventual Sex, Fluff, Gratuitous Hand Holding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Migs Mayfeld POV, Migs is soft for the ManDadalorian, Migs never dropped the child, Migs swears like Bill Burr, No beta we die like Bothans, Slow Burn, The Mandalorian (TV) Season 2 Spoilers, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Trauma and Soft Garbage in Equal Measure, because Din deserves to be treated right, but it's going to be tender and romantic, he instead used latent dad powers to catch him, he's still an asshole though, its the biggest reason Din deems him worthy as a co-parent, yearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28702179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urisarang/pseuds/urisarang
Summary: “What are you--Come on, I worked so hard to convince you to put that on and you’re just gonna take it off again?”  Din, with forced calm, places the helmet on a nearby shelf probably to buy himself time before he has to explain.“We aretome, to hide myself from you?  It is not done.”  Migs makes a face of disgust, this has religious mumbo jumbo written all over it.“Okay, so what?  Now that we’re to-tome?  You’re just gonna take that off?  Why does it matter?  I don’t know how brothers in arms works for your people, but for mine?  It’s not that big of a deal, you can keep your privacy.”Din takes a step forward, his arms raised as if to touch but they fall back to his sides before he even gets close.“It is--It’s more complicated than that.Tomeis more than a warrior bond.  It is a joining, a marriage.”“You’re gonna have to repeat that, because I could swear you just said we got married.” Migs isn’t panicking, he’s not. Really. He’s just a little concerned that he’s having hearing problems.(Or the story of how an angry asshole falls for a softie with a heart of gold--and learns to love again)
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin/Migs Mayfeld, Migs Mayfeld & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 446
Kudos: 595





	1. We got WHAT?!

**Author's Note:**

> I just--I love them okay?  
> Going to have very limited Mando'a in this--because Migs doesn't understand it and he doesn't care to learn. So if Mando'a puts you off don't worry there won't be hardly any in here besides when it is ~~a coinvent plot device for misunderstandings~~ important for plot.
> 
> Anyway enjoy this entirely self-indulgent story because I can't stop thinking about them. :)

“You did what you had to do.” He tries to hand the Mando his helmet, but he just looks up at Migs, confusion clear in his eyes. “I never saw your face.” The Mando looks between Migs and the helmet, but he makes no move to take it from Migs’s hands—not even when Migs presses it into his chest not so gently thinking the Mando is still in shock.

“I can’t.” His voice shakes as he says it as if it physically pains him to admit it.

“What do you mean you can’t? Just put the fucking helmet on. No one has to know. Easy as that.” The Mando shakes his head.

“I broke my creed, the only way I could go back is if there was no one who had seen left breathing,” Migs’s eyes narrow at that, he can see it in the other man’s eyes that he’s not even considering it but still— “Or _tome_.”

“Okay so do that.” Migs says with a shrug, “Whatever you gotta do, you should just fucking do it already. Kinda pressed for time here.” 

“But you don’—” The Mando starts but Migs cuts him off when he grabs his arm and leans in.

“Look, I don’t know shit about your creed or whatever, and frankly? I don’t give a shit, but what I do give a shit about? Is not getting shot in the next 10 minutes or however long it takes to get out of this hell hole and I can’t do that with you all compromised and shit.” Migs stares him down, looking into those sad eyes, “You’re off your game without it so do whatever you have to do Mando, and put that helmet back on.”

A second ticks by as they stare each other down until something crosses over The Mando’s eyes. Acceptance, gratitude, and guilt all rolled into one. 

“Din Djarin.” The Mando says gripping Migs’s forearm back. His eyes are deadly serious as they wait for Migs, luckily he’s quick on the uptake and figures out it must be some warriors bond or something.

“Migs Mayfeld.” He says back, the grip on his arm tightens ever so slightly and then The Mando—Din—leans in until their foreheads are pressed together. One breath in and one breath out is all the time that the contact lasts before he is pulling back once more. He stares into Migs’s eyes for a moment longer as if he’s trying to look inside his soul or some shit and then—thank fucking god—he’s stepping back and putting on the helmet.

And not a moment too soon.

The seal on his helmet clicks into place just as there is a shout outside of the officers' quarters and they return to fighting for their lives. It’s hectic, full of near misses but they make it and before long their back on Slave I. . .flying away from the giant explosion that is Migs’s version of therapy. 

Why talk about your problems when you can just blow them up instead?

He moves to walk past Din to take his seat on the ship but is stopped by a hand on his arm.

“We should talk.”

Great. Seriously those have to be the single three worst words to be put into a sentence together.

“Whatever you have to say can wait until we’re sitting down.” Din nods in accent releasing Migs’s arm as he moves into the ship. He walks over to the cockpit and waits until Fett can spare him a moment’s attention before speaking.

“We need privacy for _tome_.” Fett spins around in his chair to look at Din, surprise on his face. For all of Migs’s taunting over the last couple of days as they prepared for this mission not once had he gotten Fett’s mask to crack. 

Fan-fucking-tastic. That must mean whatever he agreed to is serious. Whatever, it’s not like it will be his problem for long. Soon enough they’ll be dropping him back off on some other prison rock, although if the cop is to be trusted—at least it will have a better view. 

“Take my quarters.” Fett’s right-hand assassin, Fennec, raises her eyebrows at that, and Migs is no less surprised. To offer his own quarters up with how secretive Mandos are. . .

He’s almost wishing the cop would show up out of thin air just to take him away from whatever the hell this is.

But no dice.

Reluctantly he follows Din into Fett’s quarters after the man grabs his beskar. Din shuts the door behind them and does something very surprising.

He takes his helmet off.

“What are you—Come on, I worked so hard to convince you to put that on and you’re just gonna take it off again?” Din, with forced calm, places the helmet on a nearby shelf probably to buy himself time before he has to explain.

“We are _tome_ , to hide myself from you? It is not done.” Migs makes a face of disgust, this has religious mumbo jumbo written all over it. 

“Okay, so what? Now that we’re to-tome? You’re just gonna take that off? Why does it matter? I don’t know how brothers in arms works for your people, but for mine? It’s not that big of a deal, you can keep your privacy.” 

Din takes a step forward, his arms raised as if to touch but they fall back to his sides before he even gets close.

“It is—It’s more complicated than that. _Tome_ is more than a warrior bond. It is a joining, a marriage.”

“You’re gonna have to repeat that because I could swear you just said we got married.” Migs isn’t panicking, he’s not. Really. He’s just a little concerned that he’s having hearing problems.

“We did. Words were spoken and the bond forged in battle.” Of course. Of-fucking-course their marriage rights _would_ have to involve a battle in some way, because why wouldn’t it? Their whole culture was ass backwards if you asked Migs, so this shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

“Right. Okay.” He says grinding his jaw as he thinks. He can work with this. “Alright, so we can just get divorced right? Or will that require one of us to die first?” 

A telling stretch of silence passes before he answers.

“Usually," he admits, "but exceptions have been made in the past.” He looks off to the side, uncomfortable with the topic.

“Cool, so we’ll do that.” Migs waves his hand around, “Whatever that is. Problem solved. You can go get your kid and I can go back to slaving under the New Republic. We go our separate ways and we never, ever speak of this. It’ll be like it never happened.”

“There is another option.” Din says letting out a sigh, and shuffling his feet. Brown eyes flick back up from where he was staring at his booted feet to meet Migs’s eyes. He looks uncomfortable but determined.

“What you did for me? Giving me back my honor, saving my creed? I cannot let that debt go unpaid.” He pauses, mouth twisting into a grimace as if his next words have turned his mouth sour. “What do you know of the Lost Species Act?”

“Never heard of it.” He’s an outlaw, why would he give a shit about some obscure law?

“Mandalorians, my people we are—” A deep pain overcomes his features as the words catch in his throat. He closes his eyes shut tightly for a moment before opening them once more. “We are nearly extinct.” 

That knocks the wind right out of Migs’s sails. He knew they were rare but he never thought. . .

“That law was made to protect my kind, we are a private people and marriages are rare.” No shit if they involved a life or death battle to be forged, Migs thinks. Din licks his lips before he continues, almost vibrating with nervousness. “Anyone who a Mandalorian deems fit to marry will have their record struck clean.”

“Wait a second, just wait a second.” Migs asks putting up a hand to forestall Din. With his other hand, he rubs at the back of his neck in thought as he paces back and forth in the small space. He’s got to think about this, because if what Din is saying is true. . .

Then he doesn’t have to go back to working his ass off while his droid overlords watch. He could go back to having a life again. Free, for once, from the hanging threat of some cop running his record over his head?

Sounds too good to be true. He turns and gives Din a searching look, but the man is just as much an open book now as he always is without his helmet.

He’s not hiding anything, no catches. Just an offer, one that would benefit them both.

“You look human to me, and we’re both men so how would us getting married help in any way whatsoever with your—your people’s problems?” 

“Children born of Mandalorian marriages are rare, almost unheard of, we instead grow by way of the foundlings. Alone is bad for the child, my father was not _tome_ and when he died I in turn became alone. It is better for the foundlings if raised under _tome_ —together. The child—” His voice catches as his throat tightens with obvious emotion. “The child would be our foundling, our future. If you would have me.”

It is in that moment that Migs realizes Din wants this, actually wants this. A family, though he probably would have preferred basically anyone else in the sector. Even still—in his mind, it would be worth it if he got to keep his kid.

Total fucking softie.

Migs scrubs his hand over his face—he can’t believe he’s considering it. Fuck, not only is he considering it, he’s already decided. Decided the moment he saw how sincere Din is. When he remembered a cute green face looking up at him innocently so long ago on Din's ship. Unafraid and curious.

Guess he’s a fucking softie too now. Might as fucking well marry him then. They can be softies together and go buy ice cream or whatever shit it is that people do in the holos. 

“What do we need to do? What does a marriage entail? I’m not gonna have to do some weird Mando shit like fight a rancor barehanded with a blindfold am I?” 

“What? No.” His face scrunches up in confusion before smoothing out. “We are _tome_. It is already done. I could ask no more of you.” 

“Okay.” Migs agrees if it’s already done and all he has to do is play along and he gets to keep his freedom? It isn’t even much of a choice, why wouldn’t he take the deal? He never really thought about settling down, not after what he lost. So it’s not like he’s throwing away a chance at something. He’s a simple man when you get down to it really. All he wants is to make enough money to afford his well-earned drinks and to get enough of a rep no one will fuck with him.

And being married to a Mando? This Mando out of all of them? That’s a jump start on his rep if there ever was one. And once word gets out that they blew up a hidden Imperial base as a wedding ceremony. . .

The idea gets more appealing by the minute. 

“Yeah, alight. Let’s do this.” Din’s eyes widen in pleasant surprise and the tension around his shoulders melts away. A hint of color returns to his face and his lips twitch into what could almost be called a smile. 

A bit of awkward shuffling and not looking goes on as Din changes back into his beskar. Migs is a scoundrel, his moral compass skewed, but he’s still a gentleman. At least where it counts. He turns his back and looks away giving Din what privacy he can as he changes—they’ll have to get over his shyness eventually but baby steps.

Migs can wait. 

It’s not like Din even has to get naked to change, he kept his undersuit on but considering his upbringing? Migs doesn’t want to make this any harder than it already is for the guy. 

His husband.

Uhg, what a fucking day. He so needs a drink the first chance they get.

Din clears his throat signaling Migs that he can turn around now. The helmet remains off, his expression once again wary.

“If you—If you are not happy with. . .me, we can part. I will not hold you to this if you do not want it.” 

“Aww, that’s sweet of you to offer, but me? I’m easy. Respect my space, don’t try to boss me around, and we’ll get on just fine. Everything else is just extra, we’ll get there when we get there—or we won’t. I don’t give a fuck.”

And he doesn’t. That’s the real kicker.

“Was never one for the quiet life. Always found myself seeking out firefights, explosions. Lived for the thrill of coming out on top—and something tells me I’ll have more than I could want if I stick with you.” Migs admits with a shrug his eyes catching on Din’s now openly happy face.

Yeah, he could do a lot worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _tome_ \--- Together. I'm using it in place of marriage.  
> It has been brought to my attention there is an actual term for marriage in Mando'a(riduurok)--but for now, its use here in this story as literally 'together' and connotations of marriage will stay.  
> Also the background info for this story is a mixed bag of me living on the wookiepedia vs making up my own stuff because I like it. So don't expect this to be 100% true to canon(not that canon is true to canon...)
> 
> Have this and the next chapter written out--past that? Who knows~~~ Thinking I might pants this one for a change and just see where these two lead me. :D I have lots of lovely, possibly _spicy_ scenes in my head--but I'll just let Din and Migs decide their own pace for this one.


	2. The Child and The Creed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been very pleasantly surprised by how many of you lovely people have enjoyed this silly story of mine so far--THANK YOU <3 Gives me all the warm fuzzies :3
> 
> And in the spirit of truly pantsing this story--please enjoy the next, much longer chapter, far earlier than planned. 
> 
> Oh! I also realized I never added serious tags to the story just my funny ones so went and added some. Whoopsie daisy

So they’re doing this, really doing this. Jumping an imperial cruiser mid-flight with four Mandos, a cop, and an ex Imperial-turned terrorist. Well, he did say he never liked to be bored.

“You know when I signed up to bust that asshole out of the prison ship, I figured that would be the craziest stunt I pulled—but this? This is something else.” Migs says to the cabin at large, the cop, Cara, gives him a look. He knows she doesn’t trust him—he doesn’t trust her either but she trusts Din, and Din trusts him.

That’s good enough for her.

Not that she didn’t have choice words to say(shout) when Din told her the good news.

——

“Just what the hell happened in there? _Married_?!” Migs, being the asshole that he is, did nothing to reassure her.

“Look lady, I don’t kiss and tell. That’s between brown eyes and me.” Her eyes had jumped to Din who fidgeted uncomfortably but didn't deny it.

“You’ve seen his—wait no,” She then threw her hands and took a step back, “You know what I don’t even want to know. “ She fixed Din with a look that promised an interrogation later, but let it slide bitching under her breath about all the paperwork she would have to file.

—— 

“Better get used to it if you plan to stick around a Mando.” Fennec says matter-of-factly. Migs knows of her by rep, viscous and efficient—and he’s seen first hand how good of a shot she is. A tried and true member of the criminal underground, not the sort of person he’d expect to follow a Mando.

“Must be some story how you got roped into all this.” Migs says waving his hand around the cramped ship. She gives him a knowing and cruel smile but she doesn’t say anything. 

Migs decides he likes her a little more for it.

“Enough.” Bo-Katan says cutting into the chatter harshly. Her voice is strong and practiced in command—a woman used to getting her way without argument. Even the way she stands and holds herself—like she’s better than the rest of them. That if she had any other choice she wouldn’t associate with their kind.

Now her? Migs doesn’t like her one bit. 

He’s seen her type again and again when he was an Imperial. So sure of themselves, and their so-called ‘divine’ right to rule that they lost touch with what a leader was meant to be in the first place. Migs could see it plain as day what kind of person she is. The same kind that stepped on the very people they were meant to help on their way up. People like Migs.

The sooner they get this over with the better, he can’t stand to be around people like her. They liked to label him with oppositional authority disorder or some shit but the truth was that he didn’t respect _their_ authority. He could follow orders just fine if they were the right ones.

But this ain’t his gig.

So he shuts his trap and listens like the good little soldier she wishes he was. The plan is simple, if not completely insane, but it could work. At the very least it’s just crazy enough no one would ever be expecting it.

Bo-Katan gives them their orders, Migs isn’t happy that Din is being sent off alone without any backup—but she’s right. Din is a master of stealth, which makes no fucking sense as he’s wearing the shiniest, most eye-catching, and expensive armor out of the whole lot of them—but somehow he is. 

Migs isn’t invested in the guy or anything, but come on? It would be a little fucked up to let your new husband(what a mind fuck that is to think even in the privacy of his own head) get killed before they’ve even had a honeymoon? People will think he’s some sort of kyber digger just out for the credits. 

But he knows he’d just get in Din’s way, better that he goes along with the rest of them to cause the biggest distraction he can manage. 

Din is quiet, he’s always quiet, that’s kind of his thing after all—but it’s a different kind of quiet. The kind that needs to be interrupted. Fuck, he hates the fact that he cares enough to worry already, but it doesn’t stop him from worrying just the same.

“Hey,” he says as softly as he can, wanting to give the illusion of privacy to what he has to say despite their surroundings. Din turns his helmet giving Migs his full attention. “We’re gonna get your kid back alright?” 

Migs reaches out and grips Din’s shoulder just under the beskar in an offer of support. He squeezes until he can feel the muscle under the suit and though he can’t see Din’s face he can tell the other man appreciates it. Appreciates the contact, as limited as it is.

Taking his arm back he scoots closer on the bench only stopping once their shoulders are pressed together. Offering silent support for his silent Mando. Din is like steel next to him for a moment before he relaxes into the contact. 

They say nothing because what is there to say as they fly off on _another_ batshit crazy mission? The quiet that surrounds them now is of the good variety. Shoulder to shoulder they sit, not a word between them as they enjoy a moment of peace while they can. Who knows what the next few hours will bring?

——

As it turns out? It brings a lot of chaos and a lot of close calls, Migs thinks to himself much later as he runs through the halls of the Imperial cruiser. Flanked by an entire squad of deadly women. A fact that might have made him feel emasculated if he gave a shit about things like that. Instead, all he feels is a growing respect for these women.

And he won’t lie—it’s a little hot watching Cara swing her jammed machine gun and beat the ever-living shit out of a trooper with it like a club.

She catches him looking and winks—he’s not sure if in a flirty way or an ‘I could do this to you’ sort of way and you know what? He’s not sure which is better. He offers her a tilt of his head in respect of her display of power and sheer willingness to do violence.

Fucking shock troopers. Insane the whole lot of them.

A whole lot of shooting and dead troopers later they make it to the bridge, only to find it empty. Bo-Katan is about to blow a fucking fuse and Migs ain’t happy about it either.

“Where the hell is Gideon?” She demands, silence answers. 

“Fuck!” He yells out slapping the palm of his hand on a nearby console. This was not how this was supposed to go. No plan lasts five minutes upon engaging the enemy but for _Gideon_ of all fucking people to not be where he’s supposed to be? 

That’s a big fucking problem. 

Migs slings his rifle over his shoulder and gets to work on the console trying to pull up the camera controls. It takes him a moment to remember how to navigate a computer system he hasn’t had to use in years but eventually, he gets it working. The women crowd around him watching over his shoulders as he rapid-fire flicks through camera feeds searching for some sign of Gideon.

Click, click, click he swaps until there! He’d recognize that Vader fanboy get up anywhere. What he doesn’t expect is the suit of beskar—though he probably should have. There is just something about Din that attracts trouble, in the worst kind of way. 

An intake of breath behind him, but Migs doesn’t dare take his eyes off the screen to see who it was. He can’t look away, not when he sees, is that a fucking black lightsaber?! What the fuck. Part of him wants to run off and help, but the rest of him knows there isn’t shit he can do. 

Whatever happens? Will happen before he could get there so he watches. Gives witness to it.

Din is tough, fast, and highly skilled but Gideon has been wiping out entire races since before either of them were born. To say it is a close fight would be an understatement. 

It’s a fight to the death, but Din fights like a rancor protecting its young. Whatever motivation of hatred and rage that drives Gideon pales in comparison. He won’t lose, he can’t. Dying is not an option, his kid comes first.

Gideon falls down, defeated and Din stands before him. That weird lightsaber at this throat. Bo-Katan says something angrily in her native tongue before Migs hears her turn and step away. 

That's not suspicious at all. He turns to look at her turned back and sees her with her head bowed speaking rapidly in her native tongue with the other Mandalorian. Yeah, that’s totally not going to bite them in the ass. He shifts where he stands, he’s not stupid enough to keep his back to that.

He looks back to the terminal in time to see Din pick up something small wrapped in brown. The cameras are shit so he can’t make any details out other than a hint of green peeking out from the bundle. 

The kid—Din’s kid. 

The child looks smaller being held in Din’s arm than Migs remembers it being when he held the kid himself so long ago. He remembered finding the strange little creature on Din’s ship—though he only knew him as the Mando he was being paid to double-cross back then. It was a surprise, completely unexpected. 

Even more unexpected when Din had taken the child back from him delicately. As if the child were precious to him. The child was hidden away once more and Migs actively didn’t think about it. Didn't think about the way the Mando—a father—who up until that point let their teasing and jabs go without a word was ready to fight them all over the kid. He couldn’t think about that back then—he had a job he was being paid to do and if he had allowed himself to?

He might have made a different call.

Migs shakes the ‘what if’ thoughts from his head—what’s done is done. He’s got a whole life full of regrets he doesn’t think about—what’s one more?

Seeing the child in Din’s hands—watching as he removes the manacles around tiny wrists. . .They told him the kid was special and that’s why the empire was after him. But to kidnap something so small? It’s practically a baby for crying out loud! Just what has the empire come to if they are stooping so low? 

Din stands there, one arm holding the lightsaber to Gideon’s throat the other carefully holding his kid to his chest—the very vision of what it means to be a Mandalorian. Like a fairy tale come to life. 

Migs doesn’t doubt for a second that the vast majority of what he thinks he knows, what he’s been told about Mandalorians is wrong—he knows it is. But there were a couple of things every story had in common: Family means everything to them and they would happily burn an entire world to save just one of their own. 

Looking at Din standing there in all his glory—Migs believes it. 

It stirs something in his gut. A pooling of desire that he cannot deny. Well fuck, just look at the guy! Who wouldn’t want some of that? Migs wouldn’t be the first guy to have a thing for competence, and unquestioning loyalty. 

And somehow he’s married to that. What a fucking trip. 

Migs steps back from the terminal, he’s got some things he needs to think about after seeing that display—but he has bigger things to worry about. Things like the poorly hidden anger on Bo-Katan’s face when she turns around. Something’s up with her, he just hasn’t figured out what it is yet.

She said Gideon was hers to deal with—but this has to be more than jealousy at not being the one to take him down. The tension on the bridge doesn’t go unnoticed by the assassin either as he sees Fennec’s keen eyes dart between the Mandalorians analyzing their faces and body posture. Subtly her stance mirrors that of Migs, loose and at the ready.

Time passes slowly as they wait for Din’s return. The main mission is over—all that remains are the secret agendas waiting to pop up and bite them in the ass. 

Bo-Katan and her right hand stand at the head of the table, where the commander of the ship would reside. Bo-Katan’s face is tense, she seems to be fighting some inner war, while her right hand has bloodlust in her eyes. Ready and waiting to slit the throats of everyone in the room the moment she’s given the order. 

Cara, despite being a cop, seems to have few qualms about breaking the rules. Just as she turned a blind eye to springing Migs, he doesn’t doubt she’ll do the same for whatever sketchy business Fennec and Fett are probably up to. She might be the only other one here besides Migs who doesn’t have ulterior motives. It’s plain as day that she holds Din in high regard. He might be able to count on her, but will she risk counting on him in turn?

It's starting to look like this might just turn into an old fashioned standoff with a gun in everyone’s face.

He’s seen how they can fight—how they all can fight. He’s probably the least capable of them all—but he’s no slouch. These women mean fucking business and if any one of them starts something they’ll all be in for a rough time. It sure as shit won't be pretty.

When the door hisses open all guns are drawn and aimed at it, all but Migs. He knows who it is and he’s more concerned with the rest of the room’s reactions. Din stands there in the entryway larger than life yet clearly worn down from his fight against Gideon. Migs watches everyone’s reactions closely, blaster at the ready on his side.

There is relief on Cara’s face as she sees Din, but when she spots the kid in his arm her face breaks out into a huge smile. No danger there. 

Fennec’s face is as impassive as ever. Whatever business she has with Fett—has nothing to do with Din so Migs discounts her and turns his gaze onto Bo-Katan.

Her lip is curled into a snarl as he looks at Gideon, a reasonable reaction if you asked Migs. But then her eyes flick down to the lightsaber and hunger fills her eyes. The same twisted hunger for power he’s seen a dozen times. Is it about the weapon? Sure it’s pretty fucking slick, maybe even one of a kind—but is it something really worth fighting over? 

Worth fighting and killing her own people over?

Din is the only Mando who never takes off his helmet out of the four Migs has had the displeasure of meeting. Migs knows that is some point of contention between him and the other two Mandalorians in the room, but he doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know what it means. All he knows for sure is that despite the four of them being part of a goddamn _endangered_ species—Bo-Katan and her right-hand view both him and Fett as inferior. Perhaps going as far as to not consider either one of them a true Mandalorian? Who knows. 

The way she looks at Din, sizing him up though? It’s clear she has no qualms whatsoever with fighting him despite the fact that Din did the hard work for her in taking down Gideon. 

Din tosses Gideon to the floor at Bo-Katan’s feet like an offering. Flicking off the lightsaber he holds it out in the same vein but her reaction doesn’t make any sense. She takes a step back, eyes not leaving the lightsaber. Her gaze is a mix of longing and revulsion.. 

“Take it.” Din says raising it up higher, but she steps back once more. 

And that is when they all find out that whoever holds the ‘dark saber’ has the right to rule over Mandalore—and that it can only be taken with a fight. 

“You think maybe letting us in on that little secret would have been a fucking good idea?” Migs says angrily, as he watches Din flounder. “Don’t tell me you were afraid he was going to take it from you? Well guess what—it’s too fucking late now.”

“I don’t want it.” Din repeats for not the first time, and as much as Migs has grown to respect the man—he’s no leader. Sure, he can fill the role in a pinch, but to lead an entire people? The guy can’t even take off his helmet without freaking out—how’s he going to handle being under the scrutiny that goes along with ruling an entire goddamn race?

Bo-Katan looks stricken, guilty, but not remorseful. While the Mando at her side looks beyond furious. If looks could kill. . .but she’s a good dog. Migs will give her that. She doesn’t lash out and waits patiently for her master’s orders. 

Orders that have yet to be decided from the look in her eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of challenging him _now_ are you? What kind of coward’s move is that? He’s just got his kid back and you won’t give him five fucking minutes to enjoy it before ruining it?” Migs spits on the deck floor earning a growl from Bo-Katan’s lackey. Like he gives a shit.

The air in the room has gone cold. Each of them drawing imaginary lines in the sand where their loyalties lie. Two on three from where Migs is standing—Fennec has already stepped back, away from the unfolding chaos. Whether she’ll stay out of it entirely—or move it to help whichever side she thinks will bring her the most benefit remains to be seen.

Either way, Migs likes those odds.

What he doesn’t like? Is the way Gideon is looking between them, a wide smile plastered all over his face.

“What’s so funny?” Migs demands, but Gideon just laughs.

“All this. I knew this would happen. That you would turn on one another.” He looks over at Bo-Katan, “What are you going to do? He’s holding your birthright, the very future of your people in his hands and he doesn’t even know the significance. A member of the _death watch_ on the throne of Mandalore? Will you really stand for such a thing? Especially after what happened last time?”

Migs looks between Din and Bo-Katan, he doesn’t know what the death watch is, but judging by Bo-Katan’s expression it isn’t something to be proud of. Din squares his shoulders and quietly places his child behind a console—and out of harm's way. 

“Mandalorians, for all their pride in their way of life, their creed—nothing more than savages.” Gideon continues his words cutting deep into the Mandalorians present. “Nothing more than beasts willing to tear out each other’s throats as they fight over any tiny scrap of power.”

“Shut your mouth.” Bo-Katan forces out through gritted teeth. A grimace takes over her face and she tilts her head to the side, eyes pressed closed. When she reopens them she looks at Din and no other. She opens her mouth to speak but the proximity alarm sounds in the next moment before she gets the chance.

“What is that?” Cara asks, turning around to look at the screen. Whatever she sees makes her face grow pale.

“That is death coming for you all.” 

Migs muscles his way over to the cameras and his face too grows pale. They’re fucked. The entire platoon of dark troopers that Din spaced? Well, they're back and headed for them. They have minutes at most before they arrive. 

“You could barely handle one, what will you do against them all?” Gideon laughs so sure in his victory, “Soon only I and the asset will remain alive in this room—and to think you spent your last moments squabbling for the right to rule over a race that will soon be extinct.” 

Migs knocks the butt of his rifle into Gideon’s face—he’s had more than enough of that. If he’s going to die, Migs will be damned if he doesn’t at least take the cocky bastard with him.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Cara says as the proximity alarms go off once more. A lone x wing flies by the viewer before landing.

“What good is a single x wing pilot going to do?” Fennec scoffs, and Migs feels the same way about it—but just the same his eyes don’t leave the cameras. Watching with interest as a dark cloaked figure climbs out of the x wing. For someone stepping out of a New Republic x wing, they sure look like they belong on the imperial side with that jet black hooded cloak of theirs.

They stalk forward with a confidence Migs has only had the misfortune of seeing once, a long time ago. His skin crawls at the memory and the similarities he sees in the stranger stalking through the halls of an Imperial cruiser as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

And then he lights up a green lightsaber and all the air rushes out of Migs like a shot to the gut. 

“Is that a fucking Jedi? Why the fuck is there a Jedi here? Aren’t they supposed to be extinct?” Din reaches out for his kid, but the child is watching the screen—watching the Jedi with rapt attention and doesn’t notice. The little guy’s face is scrunched up in concentration for a moment before it turns around to look at Din. 

It babbles some happy-sounding nonsense reaching out for Din with one tiny arm while the other touches the image of the Jedi.

Migs has a bad feeling about this.

“He’s here for Grogu.” Even though the helmet’s modulation his voice comes out shaky, as are the hands that pick up the child. He pulls the little guy to his chest, his helmet tilted down to look at the kid in his arms. 

Fuck.

Migs did not sign up for this shit. Fairy tales popping up out of the works left and right. What even is his life anymore? Hell, what even _is_ the kid? He’s never seen anything like it before—he’d remember something that cute. But is it cute enough to be worth fighting a fucking Jedi over?

Now that is the question.

All eyes are on the terminal watching as the Jedi makes his way towards the bridge cutting down and throwing dark troopers left and right. Swatting them like insects, yeah no—Migs ain't fighting whoever this is unless he has to. It would be a slaughter. 

The room is a different kind of tense the closer he gets, everyone is taking positions towards the back of the room. Fennec and Cara ready their rifles using terminals as cover. Bo-Katan and her right hand draw their blasters facing the door head-on. Migs moves to the side of the door if they can’t get out of this another way and they have to fight? Like hell is he letting it be a fair one. Maybe he’ll get lucky and get a shot in while the Jedi is distracted with dealing with the rest of the room.

Yeah and maybe Banthas can fly.

Everyone is preparing—everyone but Din. Migs watches as he walks calmly around towards the front of the room, the child in hand. 

“Open the doors.” Din is calm, if not resigned.

“Are you out of your mind?” Bo-Katan asks, and Migs hates to agree with her but—what the hell is he thinking? 

“You just got the kid back, don’t tell me you’re really going to just hand it over?” Din turns to look at Migs, gloved hand gently stroking one of the kid’s long ears. 

“It was Grogu’s choice to call out for the Jedi.” He sounds so sad as he says it—wait what?

“What do you mean the kid called—don’t tell me—no. There is no way that tiny little _baby_ is—” Din’s silence is telling, Migs looks around the room but no one seems surprised. 

“Well fuck me.” Why wouldn’t Din, a member of an endangered species adopt a baby from one that should have been extinct? Of all the Mandos he could have accidentally gotten married to it just had to be this one. Fucking figures.

Din looks at him, it’s a heavy look even through the helmet but in the next moment it is gone. He reaches out pressing the controls and the door opens with a hiss. 

“No fucking way.” Cara exclaims lowering her rifle and then standing at attention. The rest of the room waits anxiously but the Jedi makes no move to attack. 

The hooded figure looks around the room at each of them before moving on. Dismissing them all as unimportant despite how heavily armed they are. But when the Jedi’s gaze falls upon the kid in Din’s arms their whole body shifts to focus their full attention on the small creature. Din’s arms tighten just a fraction at the intense gaze on the child. 

His child.

And then the Jedi flips their hood back revealing a man. A sharp intake of air from Cara, but aside from her no one else shows any sign of recognition. A happy noise from Grogu as his little hands reach towards the Jedi—okay well, at least the kid seems to like the guy. That’s nice.

“Are you a Jedi?” Din asks as if it weren’t the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

“I am.” The man’s voice is steady, self-assured.

The Jedi and the kid stare at one another, as if in silent communication. Migs had heard the rumors about Vader and his mind tricks, but it is something else to watch it first hand. The kid coos happily and the Jedi smiles back, this goes on for a short amount of time—less than a minute by Migs’s guess before the Jedi reaches out for the child. Grogu turns back to look at Din, unsure.

“He doesn’t want to go with you.” The modulation of his helmet can’t disguise the hint of hope that hangs on his words. Which only makes the next part worse.

“He just wants your permission.” It comes out like a sentence. A blow. “I will protect him with my life, I swear no harm will come to him under my care—but without training his powers will be a danger to everyone. Nor will he be safe until he masters his powers. They’ll never stop coming for him while he’s so vulnerable.”

Though Din stands perfectly still the tension radiating off of him is palpable. He stares at the Jedi, judging him much as he had judged Migs not so long ago. Whatever he sees in that face, in those eyes? It must be something great for what he does next.

Slowly, reluctantly he gets down on one knee and moves to set the child down. Grogu clings onto his glove with his tiny fingers looking up at Din with a tilt of his head. Not understanding.

“It’s time to go.” His voice cracks over his helmet’s speakers causing the child to make a concerned sound. Tiny, little hands reach out for Din’s helmet. Din freezes for a split second before he raises shaking hands—just like he had in front of that terminal on Morak.

No, Migs is not letting him do this. Not with an audience.

“Can we get a little privacy here?” He calls out, the strength in which he speaks surprising himself. Five pairs of eyes move to look at him dumbly. “Alright everyone who isn’t family? Get the fuck out.”

“You can’t just—” Bo-Katan’s right-hand starts, but he doesn’t let her finish.

“The hell I can’t. He’s gone through hell and back for that kid only to lose him again.” In a moment of lost sanity he turns to face the Jedi, “And if the Jedi are as good as the stories say you’ll let him have this. Or are you just as bad as Vader was?” 

“Mayfeld!” Cara calls out in shock, “You can’t—do you have any idea who—”

“I don’t give a fuck who this guy thinks he is. It ain’t right him taking away a man’s kid like this, not without letting them say goodbye.” Cara opens her mouth but the Jedi raises a gloved hand forestalling her.

“It’s fine,” He says to her before once again turning to Din, “And he’s right. I shouldn’t have—I was just so excited to see him that I got ahead of myself. I’ll give you all the time you need.” Din barely acknowledges the Jedi, his entire focus on the child holding onto his helmet.

The Jedi doesn’t hesitate, sweeping out of the room—what is it with that type and the flair for theatrics? The rest leave the room with far more reluctance until it is just Migs, Din, and the child. He steps up to Din’s side and has to clear his suddenly dry throat before he can address him. 

“I’ll just—I’ll watch the door. Just uh, knock three times when you’re ready and I’ll—” He’s cut off when a gloved hand reaches out touching his knee.

“Stay.” God his voice— “Please.” Fuck. There isn’t a man, woman, or whatever alive that could say no to that. 

“Alright.” His own voice is foreign to his ears. He swallows thickly before he carefully sets down his rifle, taking his time. He doesn’t do this heavy emotion shit—he’s bad at it. Always has been, he never knows what to say and what little he does say? It was always the wrong fucking thing, it’s one reason why he hasn’t had a relationship in years—the other reason well? He still can’t really think about it even now.

But he’s got no other choice. Din—there’s no one else who can be here for him through this. Migs wishes it could be anyone else, anyone besides him. Someone nice and understanding. Someone who would know what to say.

But Migs is all he’s got. 

Rifle set down and with his game face back in place Migs turns around in time to watch the beskar helmet come off and put aside. Much like Din has put aside his creed, every aspect of his life in favor of the kid. 

The same kid he has to say goodbye to.

A cosmic tragedy. Life isn’t fair, but for it to go this far? His own life has been a crapshoot—but this? This is fucked up. 

Tiny green hands reach up touching Din’s now bare face for what must be the first time and Din’s breath hitches. Tiny clawed fingers move along the stubbled jaw lightly tracing the face of the man who has been his protector—his savior.

His father.

Migs has to look away when he sees the tell-tale glistening of tears in Din’s eyes. Those tears aren’t meant for him to see, for anyone else to see. The love of a father for his son. The hurt of choosing what is best for his child over his own well-being. 

Migs wishes he didn’t understand it, wishes it didn’t bring back up long-buried wounds of his own—this isn’t about him. His own pain, so old by now has no place here. So he does what he always does when those feelings threaten to rise up to the surface, he pushes them down. Deep down where the light of day will never shine, where he never looks.

A soft coo pulls Migs from his thoughts, his eyes moving to the sound before he can stop himself. Before he intrudes upon another man’s pain, a pain that is deeply private. 

Din openly weeps but in silence. Tears flow down his cheeks to drip off his chin and down onto his armor. Never before has Migs seen another person so miserable, save the one and only time he had let his own pain out into the world so many years ago. But whereas Migs has shoved that pain deep down, repressing it—Din lets his roll over him. Embracing his pain, embracing his love for the kid. 

His _foundling_.

“Don’t be afraid, little one.” Din presses his lips against Grogu’s head and he holds him close. The comfort is just as much for the kid as it is for the father. 

Migs isn’t sure what to do with himself. Should he say something? What the hell is someone supposed to say for something like this though? ‘Hey sorry about the kid? I know he means a lot to you but you can always go find another’? Yeah, that’s sure to go over well. 

Does he offer comfort? A hug? People hug each other when they’re sad, but would it be appropriate right now? He’s already hugging his kid so would it be interrupting? 

Fuck it, he knows he’s overthinking it. Instincts—they haven’t led him astray yet—it was only when he ignored them that shit got really bad. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts he blanks his mind as best he can then looks down to where Din is kneeling with his child held in his arms. His back is hunched over as if he’s subconsciously trying to curl around the kid to keep them safe—

Trying to hold onto them for just a little bit longer.

Din pulls back to look at his child, his face twisted into a bittersweet smile. Openly showing his love and pride for his kid while failing miserably at keeping his own sorrow off his face. Din pulls one of his gloves off with his teeth, letting it fall to the floor, cast aside and completely forgotten. 

He runs his fingers along the child’s head and traces their ears. The child leans into the touch and makes a sound, not unlike a purr of contentment. Din says something in his language that Migs doesn’t understand but the love in his voice makes the meaning clear. 

“It’s time to go.” He repeats to the tiny creature. Grogu tilts their head even as those long ears droop in understanding. Tiny clawed hands reach out and hold onto Din’s face, distressed sounds coming from them that would twist even the coldest of hearts. 

“This is not goodbye, we will meet again.” Din promises—vows. No small thing for a Mandalorian and it means even more coming from _this_ one. “I promise.” One last tender caress on a long green ear before he’s pulling his hand back.

Migs gently presses Din’s helmet into his hand before he can even turn to look for it. Din looks up at him, eyes deep pools of loss, love, and gratitude. It tugs at Migs, painfully—but the kind of pain that makes you want to seek it out again and again. 

It is both a relief and a letdown once Din’s face is hidden behind the beskar once more. It feels like a weight is lifted and Migs can breathe again without those eyes on him—and yet he feels bereft with the loss. 

“I’ll just—” God his own voice is wrecked, filled with emotion. He swallows, hating himself for being so affected by someone he barely knows. For a kid, he’s never truly met. “I’ll just let them know we’re ready.”

And then he flees from the room. 

Give him an insane mission, terrible odds, and unknown dangers—but _feelings_? He’ll take his chances with blaster fire. Better odds he’d come out unscathed from it.

The door opens with a hiss and he blinks as he looks at the group awkwardly milling about the hallway. The two Mandos are off to one side, eyes trained on the Jedi as he—is he sitting on the floor _meditating_? In the middle of this chaos? 

What a fucking nut job. 

Fennec is cleaning her rifle and checking her rounds—no big surprise there. 

Cara though? She looks spooked. A spooked Shock trooper, that shouldn’t even be possible. He knows that tattoo—she was one of the ones who survived Alderaan. But here she is staring at the Jedi with a mixed look of worship, disbelief, and trepidation.

She looks like she’s gonna barf. 

What the hell happened while they were in there? His face is scrunched up in confusion but it quickly smooths out into a more familiar shape when the Jedi’s eyes open. 

Anger. 

Migs isn’t happy about this, not one fucking bit. But his hands are tied, he has no real say—but that’s never once stopped him from speaking his mind anyway. 

“Hey, you.” He says pointing at the Jedi, Cara starts, surprised by his lack of respect for whoever the fuck this guy is, but she tightens her jaw and chooses to say nothing. The Jedi stands from his seated position smoothly, not a wasted movement. 

“Look, I won’t pretend to know jack shit about the Jedi, the force, or whatever other bullshit is going on—but I know how much that man loves his kid. It isn’t right you taking him like this—but for some fucking reason this is the only way for the kid to be safe so whatever.” Migs takes a step forward, emboldened by the Jedi’s lips turning down into an expression of regret, head bowing in shame. 

“But you hurt that kid? You so much as make that kid sniffle? Not even your fancy Jedi tricks will—” He’s cut off by a bare hand touching his shoulder. Migs turns to see Din standing behind him in the doorway, the kid on one arm, the other on Migs’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay.” It really fucking isn’t but no one is asking Migs. But this ain’t about him so he holds his tongue just the same. He steps over next to Din, shoulder to shoulder providing a united front against the room at large. His ‘just fucking try me’ face firmly in place. 

No one tries it.

Din walks over to the Jedi who tilts his head in greeting before extending his hand once more palm up. Din’s helmet tilts down just barely pressing into the kid’s head for a moment before he hands over the child to the Jedi. 

The Jedi places the child against his shoulder wrapping his arm around the kid’s legs to hold him before he turns around. 

And walks away. 

The kid looks over the Jedi’s shoulder, not taking his eyes off of Din as each step takes him further and further away. The desolation that surrounds Din is oppressive, even with his helmet on. Trusting in his instincts, Migs slides his hand into Din’s now empty hand. He laces their fingers and squeezes tight when he feels the man’s breath hiccup beside him. 

Migs might not be who Din wants to hold onto, but he clings onto his hand all the same as he watches the one thing he loves most in the world be taken away from him. Whatever comes next? Migs won’t let Din face it alone, not like how he had to. 

They are married after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all I have written currently, I have many ideas just not written yet so there might be a gap between this chapter and the next. Please do let me know how you like or don't like this. I have a general direction I want to take this. . .but figured I would attempt a more organic approach to this story with using more reader input, when possible. :) 
> 
> Any who, y'all are awesome and I hope everyone has a lovely day. :D


	3. Comforting The Brokenhearted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have altered the tags--pray I do not alter them further. For real though, oops? Somehow a plot has begun to take hold in my head and this is shaping up to become _a whole thing_.
> 
> Still going to be full of all the self-indulgent things I wanted in the first place--but very likely to turn into a long fic at the rate it is going. Happy accidents!

After the day they’ve had they all decide as a group to shelf everything until the morning. They find unused rooms aboard the cruiser to hole up in for the night. The air aboard the ship is subdued, Migs doesn’t think that anyone is happy with how the mission turned out—he sure as hell isn’t.

Din is. . .he’s lost without his kid. His driving motivation for the past who knows how long. It hurts to see the man, a great Mandalorian, brought so low. The way he wandered nearly aimless through the halls of the ship after the decision to sleep aboard was reached—how he couldn’t even muster up the energy to inspect any rooms. He just walked into the first one he saw and pointedly hit the controls to shut the door behind him without a word.

Migs can take a hint, and it’s not like he doesn’t get it. He’s hurting and wants to be alone, to break down in privacy. Lord knows Migs wouldn’t want another soul in the galaxy to see him if he were in Din’s shoes.

But Din isn’t Migs, he needs different things. After what? A day and a half of being _married_ and Migs already knows that. What Din thinks he wants, and what he actually needs? Two very different things.

Migs gives him about 10 minutes to wallow in it before he pounds on the door. Silence for a beat or two and then an actual, honest to God, audible sigh followed by heavy footsteps. Migs takes a deep breath—he isn’t sure about this—about any of this. 

He might be making the wrong call here and the guy actually needs his space. Maybe he’s being a nosey asshole and intruding.

Or maybe he’s the one damn person on this ship who can help.

The door slides open and he is met with what is rapidly becoming a familiar sight of a beskar helmet. Din stares at him, he’s trying to intimidate Migs into leaving with his silence. 

Well, that’s too fucking bad because Migs can see right through his act. Can see it in the way Din’s shoulders slouch, his stance unsteady. He’s not a menacing Mandalorian right now—he’s a man in pain.

A man in need of comfort.

Migs stares him down, not saying a thing and he doesn’t have to wait long for Din’s facade to crumble. The beskar practically deflates as Din steps aside, making room for Migs to enter—but that wasn’t Migs’s goal. He walks up to Din, not around him. Migs reaches out pressing down against Din’s fingers as they lay over the door controls causing the door to hiss shut behind him.

Not giving Din a moment to react he leans in and pulls Din into an embrace. A soft, surprised gasp of sound comes over the helmet’s speakers but Migs just holds on tighter. 

The man in his arms is as stiff as the beskar he wears, but that doesn’t deter Migs in the slightest—in fact, it spurs him on to do better. He pulls back enough so that he can reach up placing his hands on the sides of Din’s helmet. He stops, he waits.

For permission.

Another breathy sound over the speakers. Well, that wasn’t a no. Migs thinks to himself as he slowly, with as much care as he’s capable of, lifts the helmet. The seal breaks with a hiss and the man beneath the helmet is revealed.

“There you are,” Migs says as he pulls the helmet the rest of the way off. He moves the helmet into one hand that he moves behind Din’s back leaving the other free. He reaches out, Din’s brown eyes watching the movement with trepidation as Migs places his hand on the back of Din's neck and pulls him forward. 

He presses their foreheads together knowing it holds great importance and significance to Din even if he doesn’t understand it entirely. It isn’t entirely pleasant feeling the helmet sweat against his skin if he’s being honest, but it definitely isn’t the worst bodily fluid he’s had on him so he can deal. 

Besides, the way Din droops against him—letting Migs shoulder some of his weight? It more than makes up for the mild discomfort. Dark eyes look into his own, it is almost unbearably intimate, and yet Migs can’t look away. Couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. 

The hot air of their breath mingling between them. In and out, in and out. A hand that had been hanging limply from Din’s side rises up between them reaching out to mirror Migs’s hold on the back of his neck. 

The leather texture of the glove brushes lightly against his skin, so gentle. It sends a shiver down Migs’s spine making him close his eyes involuntarily.  


Okay so maybe it’s been too long for him too. God, when even was the last time he touched and was touched in turn so freely that wasn’t just a roll in the sheets? Four? Five years ago? Shit, too long either way if just a light caress is enough to give him chills.

He reopens his eyes to see Din watching him with rapt attention, a faint hint of color stains his face. His lips just barely parted. A part of Migs, a very small one, briefly considers using sex as a way to distract Din from his woes—

He pulls back from Din, practically throwing himself off the other man in his haste to put distance between them. 

What the fuck? He mentally berates himself, to even consider it for a moment? What the fuck is wrong with him? Din ain’t like him, he doesn’t need that shit, not at a time like this anyway. And even if he was like Migs? When the hell has sex ever made him feel better for longer than it took to get off? When has it ever not left him feeling worse after than he did before?

Fucking never that’s when. 

Fucking idiot.

A look of hurt crosses Din’s face, great now look what he’s done. Guy probably thinks Migs is rejecting him, for fuck’s sake get a hold of yourself! Migs sets down the helmet on a nearby shelf leaving both his hands free. He reaches out waving them.

“Oh hey, no I didn’t mean—” Migs starts, rubbing the back of his head with a hand before trying again. “Sorry, that wasn’t you, that was me—oh fuck, did I really just say that? With my own goddamn mouth, I just said ‘it's not you, it's me’. What is it about you that makes me say stupid ass shit?”

Din’s lips twitch up into what could almost be called a smile, a fact that seems to surprise himself as much as it does Migs. His eyes widen briefly before his expression softens as he looks at Migs. 

Migs doesn’t know what Din sees in him to make that soft, understanding expression, but he isn’t going to kick a gift porg in the mouth. 

“How about we start over? Sound good?” Migs asks, receiving a nod of accent from Din. “Great. So I’m just going to be upfront and blunt right now just so we don’t have any more misunderstandings.” 

Din’s expression grows serious, not exactly what Migs was aiming for but it’ll do. Migs steps back into Din’s space and reclaims the other man’s neck. He leans in close but stops just short of touching their foreheads together again.

“You’re not okay.” The tendons and muscles in Din’s neck flex under his hand. “We both know it, and there is no point in pretending—but that’s okay. It’s okay that you’re not okay.” Migs makes a face at his phrasing.

“I know I come off as this total asshole—and I am! I totally am an asshole, but I’m not entirely heartless—”

“I know.” Din interrupts, his eyes and tone making it clear he truly does believe it. “If you were, I would not have offered _tome_.” It derails Migs’s entire train of thought hearing those words spoken. 

“So what would you have done instead—If I turned out to be that guy you thought I was on the prison ship?” He shouldn’t ask, it is neither the time nor the place—but he’s never been able to help himself. 

Din is quiet for a moment, giving it honest thought. Measuring his words, something Migs could stand to learn from him if he was being honest with himself.

“I would have broken my creed and exiled myself to live in dishonor once Grogu was safe.”

“For fuck’s sake, 0 to 100 just like that?” Migs says with a laugh, shaking his head. This fucking guy. “Well, shit I don’t know what to say to that.” He really doesn’t. 

“You don’t have to say anything. I spoke only the truth.” 

“Right. Of course. Simple as that right?” He says it sarcastically, but he knows it really is that simple for Din. “I hope you aren’t expecting me to be as honorable as all that though,” Migs says waving his hand around the room to encompass all of _that_ —Mandoness of his.

But it isn’t just because he’s a Mando, it’s more than that. Out of all the Mandos Migs has met, none have been like Din. None so honorable, and none even half as good. To be fair, he hasn’t met anyone from Din’s. . .clan? Tribe? House? Whatever they call it—maybe this is a thing amongst them but with a name like death watch? Migs seriously fucking doubts it.

Besides, it’s nice to think that he’s one of a kind. Special.

“You have not taken the creed, I would not expect it of you.” 

“Good cause while I’m not entirely a piece of shit? I am still an asshole and frankly? I enjoy being one. So that’s uh, that’s good that you don’t mind.” Din’s lips twitch in another almost smile, it looks good on him. Migs would like to see a real smile on this face one day. So far their entire marriage (all not quite even two days of it) has been one disaster after another. He’s seen his husband’s face four times now, but he has yet to see the man truly smile.

Migs bets he looks real pretty when he smiles—he just has one of those faces. A bit of a babyface, expressive eyes and dark curly hair—a face like his is meant for smiles and laughter.

Not to ne twisted by grief and loss. 

A fucking travesty is what this is—one that Migs fully intends to set to rights. Migs turns around and starts working open the straps holding his braces on until he can slide them off, setting them to the side before working on his breastplate.

“I know you’re a deeply private people but something tells me it would be weird for us to sleep separately even for your people.” He says over his shoulder as he takes off the borrowed armor plates. “I’m just here to sleep alright? Nothing is going to happen, I don’t expect jack shit from you.” 

Din’s silence worries him so he risks a glance over his shoulder meeting Din’s eyes. Nervous, that won’t do. He turns around and toes off his boots until he’s standing before Din still dressed head to toe in his black undersuit. 

“This is as far as this is going okay?” 

Din’s eyes drop to look at his gloves for a moment before he pulls them off and sets them to the side. Migs lets out a breath in relief, that’s step one down—the easy step. The next part is going to be a little more tricky. 

“I’ll just—” He trails off gesturing to the bed, it’s big enough for the both of them. Must have been quarters meant for a high ranking officer. Nice. Migs climbs into the bed and turns around to give Din what privacy he can.

The tell-tale sound of beskar being set down and the rustling of fabric are the only sounds in the room. Migs fidgets a little as he waits, more than a little nervous himself. When was the last time he shared a bed platonically? 

Has he ever?

Din clears his throat signaling Migs that it is okay to turn around. Din stands at the foot of the bed, just as dressed as Migs is with his long sleeve shirt and pants. Migs tosses the sheet to the side, as dressed as they are it’ll be way too hot to keep it.

Din takes that as the invitation that it is with only a slight stiffening of his shoulders. See? Making progress already. Migs is all the way to one side of the bed and Din climbs onto the other leaving a wide valley between them—just like Migs thought he would. He waits for Din as he tries to get comfortable. He lies on his side as far as he can from Migs before he reaches out and touches Din’s shoulder.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to hide from your _tome_?” A muscle jumps beneath his hand and Din lets out a sigh—but he rolls over onto his back. He looks up at Migs, unsure and wary. 

“Hey,” Migs says softly looking into Din’s eyes. “I’m not gonna hurt you, hell—I couldn’t if I wanted to. We both know you’re the better fighter.” Migs gives Din a playful smile—he happens to like the fact that Din could kick his ass.

It’s kind of hot.

“I just want to help, make you feel better—or at least less shitty. If you’ll let me.” Din’s jaw works for a moment before he presses his lips tightly together and offers one short, jerky nod of accent. Still afraid, but willing to try.

Migs works his arm under Din’s shoulders and pulls the man in against his chest. He’s tense in his arms, more steel than man—but Migs knows how to loosen him up. He flattens the arm beneath Din against his back pressing him in closer. Tighter. He brings his other hand up to gently hold the back of Din’s neck, fingers slipping into the dark curls at his neck.

A sharp intake of breath and then forced stillness. Din needs to get this out of him. Migs knows from personal experience what it feels like to push those feelings down and that isn’t something he wants for Din. He’s too good to ruin like that, to become bitter like Migs. He pulls back and looks down at Din, his jaw is shut tight, and his cheeks remain dry but only just. 

His watery eyes betraying his sorrow.

“Din,” Migs says his name for the first time, a fact that isn’t lost on Din. He twitches slightly in surprise, eyes round. “You need to let it out. Let it go, you can’t bottle this shit up. Trust me, you don’t want to. Else you’ll end up like me, and we can’t both be angry assholes in this relationship. One of us has to be the good one. You’re the light to my dark—the balance to my force? ” He tries with a mildly disgusted face at the badly mangled metaphor.

A sound shoots out of Din, it begins as a surprised bark of laughter but quickly turns gasping. Held back tears breaking free the first chance they get. Migs moves his hand to cup the side of Din’s face, thumb stroking along his cheek.

“That’s it, I got you,” Migs says softly into Din’s hair as he pulls the man to his chest once more. Migs strokes his back and runs his fingers through dark hair as Din shakes and falls apart in his arms. He’s quiet in his suffering, the only sound is his labored breathing. 

All through it, Migs holds on tight, murmuring nonsense into dark hair. The front of his shirt grows damp, but he couldn’t care less. In fact, he’s glad for it. Better he gets it out now before it starts to fester.

It goes on like this for a minute, maybe a little more before something snaps and Din goes from passively accepting the comfort to seeking it out. Hands fist around Migs’s shirt pulling him in closer as Din buries his face into Migs’s chest. Din curls in on himself so Migs just wraps himself around Din as best he can. 

He presses his lips down against the top of Din's head earning a hiccup of a sob before Din clamps back down not letting a sound escape. He wishes he could make Din let go fully, but considering his upbringing. . .he’s honestly surprised to get this much out of him. 

Which means they’ll have to do this again. Sort of like slowly letting the air out—doesn’t have to happen all at once, and while he’d rather get this over and done with—he knows it won’t be that easy. He’s got nothing against providing comfort, he just sort of wishes that the first time in years he’d be holding someone—his _husband_ of all people—it wouldn’t have been like this. 

Wouldn’t have been comforting him over a lost child. 

Migs feels the cold grip of an old hurt clamp around his heart, this hits too close to home. His throat closes up on him and his hands tighten around Din. He’s holding on too tight, he knows he is—but it is a struggle to get his hands to obey. 

Get your shit together, he berates himself. He can’t afford to lose his cool now. Not when Din needs him. A hand moves around his side and to his back. Din pulls Migs against him, returning the embrace with full force. 

They lie for hours in the room holding onto one another, supporting one another. Slowly Din’s breathing evens out and the lines of tension ease as exhaustion overpowers him. Bit by bit, Din relaxes against him save for his hands—hands that are holding onto Migs. He’s slowly being dragged under to sleep himself but he keeps blinking it back. So that he can look down at Din. 

He seems so much younger without the stress, without the vulnerability. So much more beautiful. 

Migs feels something inside his heart crack, it doesn’t quite break—but it’s a near thing. Being held in Din’s arms he can tell it is only a matter of time until that piece snaps—

He’s already falling for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna just keep slamming these out as they come to me until my brain chills out. Sorry about the rapid-fire chapters back to back to back. It'll cool off to a more reasonable pace I'm sure. Eventually. 
> 
> I have never kept a schedule with posting and don't intend to though--so either way, the updates will continue to be a surprise for us all! :D


	4. A Moment of Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Waking up in Din’s arms will be the highlight of his week—Migs just knows it. Watching those brown eyes slowly blink open and look at him all sleepily? Adorable. Getting thrown off the bed and having a blaster pressed against his skull in the next moment?

He could have done without that.

Din is quick to drop the blaster, his once droopy eyes now wide in horror. 

“It’s fine,” Migs reassures him before he can even start to apologize. “My fault for being a creep and not waking you up as soon as I was up. Really, don’t worry about it. Honestly, I would have been more surprised if you hadn’t pulled a gun on me—can’t imagine you spend many nights in bed with anyone. What with the whole,” Migs waves his hands around, “creed n shit.”

Din stares at him in sleepy confusion for a moment. Migs feels warmth spread inside his chest seeing him like this. Bedhead and lines across his face from sleeping pressed against Migs’s shirt—he looks fucking adorable.

‘Course reality rears its ugly head and all too soon sadness creeps in over Din’s features. A damn shame. He was just thinking about how he could get used to waking up to the sight Din made. Oh well, they’ll get there eventually.

They put their armor pieces back on, neither of them has a change of clothing—or any other clothing actually. Fuck, Migs hadn’t even really thought about that before just this moment. They’re going to have to get new clothes and soon—he’s always hated re-wearing clothes for multiple days in a row.

He turns back around to see a similar look of distaste on Din’s face. Migs figured that Din would have been used to it by now—what with his creed and all, but it’s good to know he’s not alone in hating this. 

“Well, looks like it’s time to face the music,” Migs says with a sigh. He’s not looking forward to this one bit, and Din’s expression is that of a man about to walk into his own execution. Might even be a valid concern—but for one small fact. 

He doesn’t have to face it alone.

“Come here,” Migs says opening his arms, calling over Din. Din stops midway from putting his helmet on and sets it to the side. Reluctantly, he steps up to Migs, expression unsure. Migs pulls him in for another of those head to head embraces Din seems to prefer and the reaction is immediate. The tension sliding off of Din’s frame.

Good call.

“Whatever happens?” Migs starts, “I’ve got your back.”

“Thank you.” 

“‘Course. That’s what husbands are for right?” It’s half said as a joke—but he means every word. What a fucking pair of softies they make. Embarrassing.

“Right.” 

They stay like that for a moment or two longer before Din squeezes the back of Migs’s neck and steps back. Grabbing his helmet from where he set it down he pauses for a moment as he looks at Migs. His lips curving into the beginnings of a smile just as he slides the helmet on hiding his face behind the beskar.

What a tease. Migs definitely likes that. 

Emotional teasing—what even is his life now? He thinks to himself as they make their way to the bridge. They share a lingering look of resignation before hitting the control panel to enter the bridge.

  
  


~ Several Uncomfortable Hours Later ~

  
  


“Well, that could have gone worse,” Migs says as they walk together back from the ship’s mess, trays of food in hand. It was a long, grueling few hours of back and forth bickering and power plays—and all before breakfast. Din gives him a look that Migs can feel even through the helmet. “Look, on the bright side, we’ve got another month to come up with a game plan. Or at the least time to work out a convincing way for you to lose.”

“That would be dishonorable,” Din says as they re-enter their room. 

What a weird thought that is—their room? Migs takes a seat on the corner of the bed. Tray in one hand, a fork full of food in the other. He puts the fork in his mouth, it ain’t bad for imperial food. He’s definitely had worse. He chews thoughtfully as he watches Din remove his helmet to join Migs in eating on the bed—though he takes the time to sit more fully and properly. Back straight against the wall.

“Anymore dishonorable than forcing someone to do something against their will?” Migs argues, gesturing with his fork at the darksaber that hangs off Din’s hip. “If you ask me? This whole thing stinks. She hid the truth because she was afraid of this happening—if that isn’t dishonorable I don’t know what is. 

“Should have never hid it from you in the first place. If she really thought she was destined to rule why the subterfuge? Why not leave it open for the best Mando to win?” 

Din listens his eyes darting between Migs and his food as he picks at it. He raises a finger as he swallows a bite.

“She assumed that I would know the significance it held—but I did not.” Din lets out a breath, his shoulders slumping. “There is much I do not know. Much I was not taught.” 

“Because you’re part of the, what was it? The Death Watch?” Migs asks in between bites, honestly curious. Din’s expression darkens.

“I don’t even know the significance of that, and there is no one I trust that I can ask.”

“Why not?” Immediately, Migs regrets asking in such a flippant way as anguish twists Din’s features into a grimace. 

“Gideon slaughtered my tribe as retribution for keeping the child—keeping Grogu from him.” Din’s head bows as he stares off into the distance, his gaze fixated on some unseen memory. 

Fuck. 

Migs’s appetite shrivels up and dies on the spot. He leans over and sets his tray down on the nearby table, but Din doesn’t look up from whatever memory is replaying in his head.

“My tribe fought and many—perhaps all—died for me. For Grogu, our foundling. Foundlings. . .they are our future. They are worth everything.” His voice cracks slightly as he says it. Hands fist at his sides before loosening once more. A forced calm. 

“It is the way.”

And now he’s lost his foundling—no, it's worse that than. He had to _give_ him up. Well, Fuck. Looks like it’s time for round two of comforting his husband to begin. Migs moves over and takes the forgotten tray of food—Din had barely touched it—and sets it to the side. Din looks up at him, and oh yeah, he needs a fucking hug.

So he pulls him in for one. It’s a little awkward with their armor getting in the way, but soon he gets Din situated comfortably against him. They lie side by side, Din’s head pillowed on Mig’s shoulder while Migs runs his fingers through Din’s hair.

“It’s not your fault,” Din sucks in a breath of air, but Migs cuts him off before he can start. “No, I don’t give a shit what you think. What happened? That’s not on you. That’s on Gideon. He’s the one who made the decision. Not you.

“You did what you had to do to save your kid. Not everyone, hell, almost no one would have gone to half the lengths you have for a kid. That your people, your tribe—that they would do the same for you and Grogu? That isn’t something to feel guilt over—That's something to take pride in. What you have done for the kid? The sacrifice your tribe made to save that cute lil green guy? 

“That’s fucking amazing. That kind of thing? Selfless, stupidly brave acts like that are why your people are known throughout the galaxy. Why even punk ass nobody kids like me were raised on tales of your people.”

All through this Din has kept his head buried into Migs’s shoulder, but Migs runs his hand along the other man’s chin. Lightly lifting up so that he can look into Din’s eyes so that Din will know he really means it.

“I know we don’t hardly know each other yet—but already? You’re probably the best man I’ve ever known, and you’re for sure the best goddamn dad in the whole fucking galaxy.” Migs drags a finger along Din’s stubble, enjoying the feeling as it catches and drags along his skin. “So I might not know the first thing about your tribe—but I bet each and every one of them was happy that they got to go out for such a heroic cause.

“For their foundling—and not just any foundling—a fucking little baby Jedi no less!” Din’s mouth curves into a sad smile as a few tears slip to fall down his cheeks. Migs reaches up, brushing them away as Din squeezes his eyes shut. 

“You did what you had to do,” he says, his tone soft. “No one can ask any more than that.” 

Eyes still closed Din reaches up to grip Migs’s wrist pressing Migs’s hand tighter against his face. His fingers circle Migs’s wrist and hold on tight. 

Migs works his other arm around Din’s back and pulls him in tight, dragging him halfway on his lap. 

Din offers no resistance.

Ever so slightly Migs begins to rock back and forth. A shudder goes through Din, his grip on Migs’s wrist going too tight for a moment before relaxing once more. The almost inaudible sound of a muffled whimper against his chest before shoulders begin to shake. All through it, Migs holds on tight trusting his instincts as he tries to soothe Din wordlessly. 

It works—after a time.

Slowly the shaking in Din’s shoulders subsides and his grip around Migs’s wrist lessens. Migs continues stroking his fingers and thumb along Din’s face even once the tears stop falling. This isn’t what he imagined he would be doing with his life—being here like this for someone else. Having someone even want _him_ , of all people, to be there for them.

And yet he could imagine no other place he would rather be. 

Once upon a time Migs had given a shit, had cared for other people. Which isn’t to say he wasn’t an asshole—always has been. It’s a core personality trait of his, but he could still care. Had, in fact, cared deeply for a select few around him.

Even loved once.

Then Operation Cinder had taken away everything and everyone he ever cared for so he thought he was better off not caring. It had nearly broken him. He spent the next who knows how many years avoiding anything that even fucking hinted at being something worth caring for. He thought he was so fucking smart, tricking the system but now that he’s got this man—this beautiful, broken man in his arms?

He realizes just how wrong he was. How empty his life was, sure he was surviving—but he wasn’t living! All his talk of doing what he had to so he could sleep at night?

All bullshit. 

This isn’t even close to any future he could have pictured—but compared to what he was doing before? Bouncing from one job to another, each worse than the one before it? Nah, he’d trade it all away just to feel something again.

To feel the slow spread of warmth in his chest as Din buries himself deeper against Migs’s neck. The ache that grows when Din looks up at him with undisguised grateful awe in his eyes. He would do a great many things to be deserving of the trust being placed in him, and he would do even more to keep from losing it. Unspeakable things.

He wasn’t kidding when he said Din was the light to his dark—he knows what he is. And it is not a good man.

But maybe that is what Din needs right now, they’ll be landing on Mandalore within hours. Bo-Katan had made it clear how little she thinks of Din, and soon they’ll be placing a call for more of their kind. Asking them to rally under the darksaber’s banner—her birthright, held in Din’s hands. 

They’ll be walking into a death trap waiting to happen. When Din had offered to fight her right then and there in the meeting for the darksaber she had claimed it would be dishonorable. That his loss of his foundling left him compromised—but once the standard mourning period had come to an end. . .it would be a different story.

So, first of all? The fact that there was a _standard_ mourning period was disgusting in Migs’s opinion, an opinion shared by Cara judging by her horrified expression. Second of all? He didn’t buy a goddamn thing she said—she talked the talk alright but she's an opportunist. First chance she sees to come out on top all squeaky clean? She’ll take it. 

So they’d be landing on a planet and purposefully surrounding themselves with people who more than likely would hold some sort of allegiance to Bo-Katan already. Din had admitted that he knew no other Mandalorians outside of his tribe and those he had known were likely dead. He would be all alone on a hostile planet—something he would be used to as a Mandalorian—

But Bo-Katan was right about one thing if nothing else. Din is hurting, nursing a loss only a parent can know, and is off his game. If it were a fair fight Migs would bet on Din no question, but as he is now? He isn’t sure which way it would go.

So maybe the force does work in mysterious ways—bringing a guy like Migs into Din’s life—right when he needs someone the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope there aren't any glaring mistakes as I yeet this into the void and then go to sleep--but if there are come yell at me in the comments and I'll fix it when I wake up :D 
> 
> Also, I found out I had been misspelling Migs's last name this entire time. Only realized it when I was googling something and it gave me the "did you mean Migs MayFELD?" and I was like OH NO.  
> Ended up having to purge my tags along with find and replace since my first additional tag was "Migs Mayfield POV" I am shame.


	5. Return to Mandalore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Looks at word count, glances at new tags, looks back down at the story_  
>    
> Yeah, so this chapter? Shouldn't have been a thing but it got away from me and then Migs and Din were like--we don't want to do what you had in mind we'd rather talk.  
> They're in charge here not me, so better buckle up, we're going off-roading!

He’s not sure what to expect when they arrive at the Mandalorian homeworld. During his time with the Imperials, he had heard all sorts of rumors of it being completely slagged with the combined power of an entire fleet of star destroyers, cracked with an experimental weapon, or simply razed to the ground by troopers. The Empire loved to brag about how they put down the Mandalorians because they refused to kneel. 

They had made the world an example of what happened to those who chose to stand against the Empire.

Even back then Migs could smell propaganda bullshit off it a mile away—but then again he had gone his entire life without ever seeing a single Mando so maybe they weren’t exaggerating. What a weird thought that one is—his whole life hearing tales of a nearly extinct species and never seeing one himself and then he meets one. And then two more, and a fourth. All within a year?

What a fucking mind trip. 

Now, look at him, standing on the bridge of a stolen Imperial cruiser with three Mandos—one of which he’s married to—as they enter orbit over Mandalore. Gideon must be positively pissed right now. His own cruiser being used to reunite a people he had tried so hard to wipe out. 

Poetic. 

Migs works the sensors and starts a deep scan of the planet. Not a single Mando has been back since The Purge according to Bo-Katan. No one is quite sure what they are going to find, but Migs isn’t exactly an optimist so his bet is on destruction. Bo-Katan is on his left, Din on his right and the tension in the air is high.

Bo-Katan has her game face on, lips set in a thin line. This is her homeworld, one she hasn’t seen in many years. A world once under her rule that she was forced to abandon for her species survival. 

Migs doesn’t envy her in the slightest right now, but maybe he understands her a little better. Going through something like that, making a decision that could have ended in extinction. 

Fuck that. 

“Sundari,” She says motioning for Migs to move so that she can type coordinates into the computer. “It is—” She stops, tilts her head to the side as she fights to keep the anger off her face, not entirely succeeding. “It **was** the capital city. One of the most heavily fortified places in all the galaxy—if any were to survive it would have been there.”

The sensors slowly triangulate on the coordinates she typed in and zoom in. At first, Migs isn’t sure what he’s looking at, the quality lagging in the first few moments as the sensors focus on the surface. The first thought he has once the picture quality pops in is how beautiful it is. The second is just a wave of horror. 

The capital was well and truly slagged.

Metal and stone lay twisted and broken surrounded by spires of sand-turned-glass. It would have taken a fleet of star destroyers concentrating their fire to melt an entire city back into the sands from whence it came. The twisted offshoots of metal and glittering glass stretch on for miles under the harsh sun.

It truly is a beautiful sight, in a sick sort of way. If you could push aside the thought of how many thousands, _millions_ had to die during its creation. 

A sound of anguish from his left, but you couldn’t pay him all the credits in the galaxy to turn and look. He might not like her, but no one—absolutely no one deserves their grief to be made a spectacle. His hands move on the controls zooming back out. 

There was nothing for them—for anyone—in that glass graveyard. 

He begins doing a long range scan for other population clusters and gets a few hits on the sensors that read similar to the capital. After changing the search parameters he gets a few more hits of smaller-sized settlements. The preliminary readings show standing structures in a few so he picks one at random and zooms in. Even before the quality kicks in it is obvious that this town wasn’t slagged from orbit like the capital was. He would recognize the char patterns and gutted buildings anywhere.

This town was burned. 

Whereas Sundari is beautiful in its death, this nameless town is anything but. Broken pieces of stone lie scattered across the landscape, the metal framework of buildings poke out from the debris like bones. 

An all too familiar sight.

He had broken ranks not long after Operation Cinder—At first, he tried to stay and help with rescue efforts, but it was futile. There were almost no survivors. Those who didn’t die by flame, or smoke? They were crushed and buried. He lasted two days before he had to go—had to run from it so he didn’t get to see much first hand but what little he did? Would haunt his nights for years to come.

It wasn’t until the first anniversary that he had it shoved back into his face. He knew the date, but as with all things dealing with emotions, he ignored it. Shoved it down, HARD, and distracted himself. He had lined up a job, one of the few times he did any bounty work, so he was in a bar waiting for the mark to show when the screens started showing aerials of Burnin Konn.

That first anniversary he was unprepared to see the news coverage, 'a day of remembrance' they called it as they splashed image after image on the screen of the worst night of his life. They played recovered footage of people digging through the rubble. Rebels, and Imperials side by side like it was a fucking motivational propaganda holo and not the greatest tragedy to happen in recent history. 

The narrator had gone off on a bullshit spill about how tragedy brought people together and Migs saw red. The next thing he knew his blaster was in his hand and all the screens in the bar were smoking wrecks. 

The fight that followed was one of the better ones of his life. Yes, he ranked them and it was solidly in the top three—if for no other reason than how good he felt getting out some of his rage. He got a lifetime ban from the _planet_ itself for that one. 

Totally worth it.

After that, he sought out bars for the sole purpose of beating the shit out of someone—usually several someones—as his way of dealing with his grief on the anniversary. Was it healthy? Fuck no. But did he enjoy it? You bet your ass he did.

Although he was careful with it after that first time. He made sure to start the fight _outside_ the bars so he could avoid another lifetime ban and because he couldn’t bear to see the footage again. He might actually kill someone who didn’t have it coming if he was forced to see it again. 

Forced to be thrown back into it like he never left—like he was still calling out her name until his throat was raw. To relieve the moment one of the last pieces of goodness in his heart had died. 

A hand on his arm has him flinching violently and reaching for his blaster without conscious thought. The hand on his arm disappears and Migs finds himself on his feet, hand at his holster facing down Din. Din, who stands out of arm's reach with his hands up in the universal sign of peace.

He hadn’t drawn his blaster, so all things considered he’s counting it as a win—not that he thinks Din would hold it against him.

Not with how he woke up this morning anyway. 

“Fuck,” Migs says moving his hand away from his hip. He turns around to see the bridge empty save himself and Din. He hadn’t even noticed the other two Mandos leave—hadn’t seen anything beyond his haunted memories. 

“Fuck,” He repeats rubbing a hand over his face, “I gotta—I gotta go.” He doesn’t look up at Din as he walks past. He keeps his eyes on the door, he can’t—he can’t deal with anyone right now. Din, beautiful, understanding Din, doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t try to stop him, or offer some meaningless words.

He lets him go.

Once the door to their room shuts behind him with a hiss Migs feels like he can breathe again. He can’t handle emotions—not like these—and not around anyone he gives two shits about. His dad fucked him up—he knows it, has known it most all of his adult life but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still fucked up six ways to Sunday. He can’t process this level of hurt, it was always “shut up and man up” Or take it out on someone else.

Fucking thanks, dad.

Now he’s a grown ass man hiding in his room cause he can’t handle being sad. Especially not around his husband—how fucked up is that? The same husband he spent hours the night before holding in his arms as he grieved over his kid?

Migs kicks the crate at the foot of the bed sending it flying across the room with a crash—like a kid throwing a temper tantrum. What a fucking hypocrite he is—all his talk of Din needing to let it out and he can’t even handle thinking about something that happened years ago. Do as I say, not as I do—fucking bullshit.

Taking a deep breath Migs tries really tries to get a hold of himself. He can’t be acting like this, not now, not here. He takes off his blaster, his other blaster, and the even smaller blaster hidden in his boot and sets them to the side. He can’t be armed right now, and while he’s at it he strips himself of the borrowed armor adding it to the pile on the floor until he’s just in his undersuit.

God, he needs a drink.

With that thought in mind, he begins digging through the room in hopes of finding a hidden stash, but the galaxy ain’t that nice. Ten minutes later he sits on the bed empty-handed and no less angry with himself, or with the universe. 

So, of course, that is when someone decides to knock on the door. 

It is a soft knock as if the person is regretful of their interruption. His chest tightens, only one person aboard who would knock that politely. 

Din.

He balls his fists up on top of his knees. He doesn’t want to see him—no, that’s not it at all. Of course, he wants to see Din, he’s the one damn person on the ship he gives a flying fuck about—and the only one who gives a fuck about him. So no, it’s not that he doesn’t want to see Din—

It’s that he doesn’t want Din to see _him_. Not when he’s like this. 

For longer than he cares to admit he considers not answering. Just ignoring the door until he’s cooled off enough to be around someone without the risk of going off. Din would respect his choice—he’s sure of it. The guy is like the king of consent and so respectful of personal space. Migs doesn't have a doubt in his mind about that—but is it really right of him to push Din away like this?

After he had gone out of his way to muscle his way into Din’s space?

“Fuck,” He breathes out already regretting this as he stands up to go to the door. He pulls it open to find Din seated on the floor leaning against the wall across from the door. 

He’s just. Sitting there. Like he has nothing better to do than wait for Migs to let him in. If that isn’t a Goddamn metaphor for what their relationship is he doesn’t know what is. Fuck.

Din’s helmet tilts up to look at Migs, but he doesn’t rise—not yet. Not until Migs lets out a sigh and gestures with his head for Din to follow. He rises up smoothly and follows Migs inside, closing the door behind him. Migs scrubs a hand over his face—he’s really at a loss here. He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed and looks down at his hands.

“Sorry I uhh—” he starts, though he doesn’t know where he’s going with that. “I just needed some space.” He risks a glance up to see Din standing there just listening. Not judging—he can’t see his face, but Migs can tell. 

“Bad memories,” he says with a shrug like it’s no big deal. Like it wasn’t something that changed him fundamentally as a person. Din’s helmet tilts as he nods in understanding. Which he might just truly understand if Migs could ever grow a pair and tell him. Tell anyone about it. 

Alderaan stands a better chance of coming back than that. 

Gloved hands raise to the sides of the helmet and Migs looks away, down at his hands. He can’t—he can’t face someone right now. It was tolerable when he didn’t have to face Din, to see pity in his eyes. 

There is a brief pause and the sound of several somethings being sat down carefully followed by light footsteps. He watches as booted feet enter his field of view and still he does not look up. He can’t. 

It is not until he hears Din’s modulated voice that he looks up.

“May I?” Din asks, helmet still in place though the rest of his armor is missing. He is gesturing with his bare hands out like he wants to touch. To hold, but he dares not cross the line without permission.

Fuck.

Migs can’t say anything so he nods instead. More than a little overwhelmed at Din’s perceptiveness, at his capacity for kindness. If he weren’t married to the man already this would have been the tipping point to make him genuinely consider it. As it is though, he can’t help but feel grateful. 

Grateful he doesn’t have to face Din while his feelings are out of control. That he won’t see any judgment, nor pity staring at him—just familiar beskar. Din leans down and presses his helmet lightly against Migs’s forehead and holds it there for a few seconds. His hand a familiar and welcome weight on the back of Migs’s neck. He’s really got to ask about the significance behind the gesture sometime. He’s sure it has to have some deeper meaning about it, but not now. 

Din stands back up straight but doesn’t relinquish his hold on Migs’s neck, in fact, he reaches out with his other hand and places it on Migs’s shoulder. His touch is light, a little unsure, but when Migs doesn't object Din pulls forward until Migs’s head rests against Din’s chest. 

The hand on the back of his neck gives a gentle squeeze before sliding up along the back of Migs’s head. A shudder of pleasure rolls through Migs as fingertips lightly trail across his scalp for the first time. Said fingers stop and pull away, mistaking the reaction as something negative but like fucking hell is he letting this opportunity go down the drain. 

“That was a good shudder,” Migs says, breaking the silence. His voice is sturdier than he feels.

“Oh.” 

Wow. Okay then. The way Din says that one syllable—changes the whole atmosphere. It changes everything—it _does_ things to Migs. Not _pants_ things per say—it’s even worse than that. It makes his stomach drop with the overpowering desire to pull Din against him and hold on tight.

So he does just that. 

A huff of surprised sound as Din finds himself falling forward into Migs. Now, he could have done what most people would have—fallen into Migs to lay on top of him across the bed. His helmet could have slipped conveniently to the side as his weight pressed down against Migs—their faces close together. He could have done a lot of wonderful, terrible things. 

Regretfully none of those things happen. The bastard’s reflexes are too good and his sense of balance doesn’t fail him. What an asshole.

Instead, he simply falls down onto his knees next to the bed. Migs still gets him pressed close and those gentle hands of his go back to work so it’s not a total loss. Far from it. With his arms wrapped tightly around Din he squeezes in tight how he likes and it’s Din’s turn to let out a little shiver.

Oh is fucking right. 

This is great, nearly perfect—but it could be better. 

“Lose the helmet?” He asks, hands sliding upwards even before he gets the answering nod. “How is it that all it takes is five minutes with you and suddenly things don’t seem so bad?” Migs asks as he lifts the helmet off and places it on the bed beside him. Dins eyes meet his own, completely devoid of any trace of pity. He had known deep down there wouldn’t be but seeing it for himself is a relief nonetheless.

“I could say the same about you,” Din’s smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges. It’s the first full smile he’s graced Migs with and it’s perfect. 

“Ah hell, you’re making me blush,” Migs jokes, though he really is blushing. With skin like his he never stood a chance at hiding it so instead, he owns it. Plus, it makes a bit of color rise up on Din’s cheeks so he doesn’t have to be alone acting like a blushing teenager with his first crush.

Migs blinks then blinks again as a thought occurs to him. He’s not the only one blushing here and he can only excuse so much of Din’s blush from new embarrassment. Because really? At this point, they’ve spent most of their time together cuddling. The novelty should have lessened to some degree if that’s all it was. 

Wouldn’t it? 

Unless of course—this really is all firsts for Din. He examines Din’s face, smoother than his own with fewer wrinkles but far from young. It hits Migs like a speeding tie fighter in that moment—

He doesn’t really know anything about Din.

Not how old he is, nor where he’s from. Does he have siblings? How did he end up with a fucking baby Jedi of all things?! They’ve just gone from one mess to another without a moment's rest—he hadn’t even thought about it before right this second. Now isn’t a good time for a heart to heart, it really isn’t. 

But when will it be? This might be the only moment of respite they’ll get for who knows how long. Migs feels like a dick using what they saw on the surface as an opportunity to get to know his husband—but at the same time? He’s never once claimed to _not_ be one. 

“Hey, brown eyes,” Migs tries out the nickname. The color on Din’s cheeks deepens—that’s a maybe. “How about you join me on the bed. I don’t know about you, but it hurts my knees seeing you kneeling on the floor like this. Too old to be pulling that shit. If I’m going to be on my knees, there best be a fucking pillow.” 

Din’s face—fucking hilarious to watch as he rapid-fire flies through half a dozen expressions before settling on scandalized. Migs can’t help himself and he bursts out laughing, and after a moment Din joins in.

“Funny.”

“I’m fucking hilarious—get it right,” Migs says with a laugh as he stands up and pulls Din up with him. “Alright boots off—and whatever else you need to be comfortable cause we need to have a conversation. Hell, we should have done this to start.” 

Din stops undoing the straps on his boot as he looks up at Migs, worry plain on his face. Migs waves a hand at him to continue.

“It’s nothing bad, I promise.” He turns around and starts working at taking off the top of his undersuit letting it fall loose around his waist. Walking over to the closet he pulls out a few different shirts holding them up to himself. While he might not have found booze when he tore apart the room he did find a closet full of clothing. Something he desperately needed even more than the booze now that he’s got his emotional support husband with him. 

Nodding to himself he pulls a plain black t-shirt over his head. While he would have preferred to shower first he doesn’t want to spend any more time in his undersuit than he has to. Three days was too much. He rummages around until he finds pants that look like they’ll fit and then turns around.

Din is on the other side of the room staring at a blank wall as if it holds the answers to the mysteries of the force. His eyes don’t waiver in the slightest as Migs shuffles his feet—if anything? He stares even harder at the wall. 

Well if he’s going to be a gentleman about it, might as well take advantage. He wasn’t planning on changing his pants in the room, but since Din seems to have thought he was going to and didn’t voice an objection. . .Who is he to disappoint?

Turning back around he kicks off his pants and can’t help the satisfied sigh as he slides on new clean clothes. Three. Fucking. Days. In the undersuit—even in his sleep no less? Way past too far. He could use new underwear but he’s not that much of an exhibitionist. Plus it might kill Din if he did that considering all it took was his shirt coming off from him to flee to the other side of the room. Migs clears his throat to signal Din that it’s safe to turn around without risking his delicate sensibilities. 

“Hey if you wanna grab something for yourself, I’ll step outside,” Migs says, already walking towards the door. “Just cause I ain’t shy doesn’t mean you gotta pressure yourself.” The look of pure relief on Din’s face lets Migs know he made the right call. He nods his head and moves to the door.

“Thank you,” It’s soft, barely louder than a whisper. Migs doesn’t look back, he doesn’t have to make a big deal out of this. It is what it is. So what if his husband is shy? It’s no big deal, he’ll get used to Migs eventually—he’s sure of it. As the door shuts behind him Migs lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

He moves to lean against the side of the doorframe, alone with his thoughts once more. Now, normally after a day like he’s had his thoughts would try and cycle back to replaying a slideshow of all the horrible things he wishes he could forget. 

Instead, his thoughts move to the man on the other side of the door. It’s strange but now that he’s not in the same room as Din it gets a little easier to think. What is it about him that has Migs like this after only a few days?

Is it because he’s as exotic as they come? He’s not talking about looks—although from what little he’s seen already? Big fan—that mustache works for him. At the risk of sounding like a daytime holo special—what makes Din so exotic is on the inside. 

Who he is as a person—and Migs doesn’t even know him yet. Not really. But every moment he spends with Din? Every little thing he does, and the care in which he does them? It shows how kind-hearted, caring, and observant he is. He could have handled Migs’s temper tantrum any of a dozen of ways—he could have just mirrored what Migs had done for him and hoped for the best.

But he didn’t. 

He watched, he paid attention. He kept the damn helmet on—against his own beliefs about what is proper between a married couple just because he thought it would make Migs more comfortable—and the real kicker?

He was fucking right.

Being able to read people is a vital skill to someone in his line of work, so it makes perfect sense that he’d be good at it. Damn good, but Migs has known countless bounty hunters in his time, and not a damn one would give two shits about someone else’s comfort. Especially if it came at a cost to their own. Migs might be able to excuse it if it was just directed at him—they are married after all.

But he’s seen how Din acts around the others. Whenever someone speaks they have his clear and undivided attention. He is constantly mindful of personal space and never needs to be told twice, hell usually not even once, to not do something that would be a cultural misstep. 

Even with Bo-Katan and her thinly disguised insults he takes the high road. He keeps his feelings out of his responses, though Migs knows he must be furious with her. He keeps it civil—had kept it civil as best as he could even back when they had first met on that prison barge. Even with Xi’an invading his personal space and teasing him he kept his cool. 

Hell, the only time Migs has seen him lose his cool was when they accidentally stumbled upon his kid. Din could excuse the blatant disrespect of his culture, his religion, and his very person—but he would not stand for anything to happen to his kid. 

When Migs had picked up the little green guy in confusion only to turn around and be faced with a _very_ angry Mando? He felt honest fear, especially after watching him drop Burg like it was nothing. He had passed the little guy over, he had expected it to be a pet or something but the way the Mando had handled it? Like it was precious to him, worth fighting them all without a second thought—when he was willing to put up with endless digs at his culture, his very way of life.

Selfless.

That’s the kind of guy Din is. Migs knows he has no business whatsoever being with the guy—not when he’s made so many concessions in his life. Killed and buried people—not all who deserved it. His hands are dirty, unfit to be the first to touch something so pure, so clean as Din.

But Migs gets a strong impression that if it weren’t him? It would be no one. And while he hates the thought of dirtying Din by proximity, it's worse to think of him never even knowing what he’s been missing.

Okay—the thought of _actually_ dirtying up Din is a very, very nice thought—but that’s a whole other can they are nowhere close to opening. 

A rap on the other side of the door pulls Migs from his thoughts—thank fuck. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, then releases it. It’s showtime, he thinks to himself as he gets off the wall and goes back into their room. 

Din is sitting on the edge of the bed as he stares down at his hands. He looks up as Migs enters the room, he looks strange out of his gear—almost like a regular guy rather than a fearsome Mando. Migs hadn’t realized how much of Din’s bulk was the undersuit padding. Even with the baggy pants and long sleeve shirt he chose he doesn’t look that much bigger than Migs—if he even is bigger at all. 

The door closes with a soft hiss behind him. It’s just the two of them now, without their suits of armor between them. Both figuratively and literally. 

Migs pauses at the doorway as he looks at Din, really looks at him for perhaps the first time—and sees the man rather than the Mandalorian. He seems so unsure, shy even as he sits on the edge of the bed—ready to move at a moment’s notice.

He wrings his hands together in his lap, a nervous habit Migs bets would never happen while he was in the armor. He’s vulnerable—truly vulnerable in ways he likely has never been before in his life. Anxiety hangs around him like a thick cloud—and yet there is a spark of something in his eyes that has Migs’s palms sweating.

He’s trusting Migs. With not only his face and his body in this moment but most worrisome of all—his heart. The heart that he hasn’t learned to hide yet so he leaves out in the open for Migs to see. 

Now look who is the nervous one, Migs thinks to himself with a tiny shake of his head. 

“You look a lot softer out of all the armor,” His mouth says entirely without his permission, “More. . .I don’t know? Human? Real? You’re always so larger than life in the suit n all.” Din looks like he doesn’t know how to take it. 

“I like it,” Migs clarifies and there it is—he’s really starting to develop a while thing for Din blushing. He walks over to the bed and takes a seat on the end next to Din, close enough his knee just barely brushes Din’s thigh. He sits on the bed with his torso twisted with one leg on the bed between them bent at the knee. 

He reaches out for Din’s hands and takes it within his own and pulls so that Din is mirroring his position on the bed. He doesn’t let the hands go once he has Din where he wants him, instead he holds them loosely within his own on the bed between them. 

Migs lets the silence stretch between them for a moment. His thumbs gently stroking the backs of Din’s hands until he sees some of the tension slide off those shoulders before he breaks the silence.

“So I guess I should start since I imagine I’ve got more experience than you with—fuck, basically everything to do with interpersonal skills—and considering how huge of an asshole I am? That’s—well fuck sorry. It’s nothing to be ashamed of—it is what it is—what I was trying to say is,” He takes a deep breath and lets it out.

“Hi, I’m Migs Mayfeld, I’m an asshole for not doing this sooner but—” He licks his lips, “I’d really like to get to know you. It’s a little fucked up we got three days into this and I don’t even know how old you are—and despite my boyish good looks I happen to be 44—just in case you were wondering.”

“37.” Din offers in turn not missing a beat. 

“That's great,” Migs says appreciatively, glad he’s not secretly a lot younger than he looks. That could have been awkward. “Right so you know I was an Imp already—now I could lie and say that I got pulled into the machine young and that I didn’t know any better—but I’d rather us not lie to each other if we can help it. Open and honest communication is a founding block of any relationship that stands a chance of succeeding after all. At least that's the shit all the holos say.

“I joined them for the credits—the glory—the big fucking explosions! I knew we weren’t the good guys—and before I met you I assumed there weren’t any real good guys in the galaxy.” Din’s eyes flick down at their hands and back up to Migs. Shy of compliments, but judging by the look in his eyes? He enjoys them but he simply doesn’t know what to do with them. 

Good to know.

“I knew we were doing bad shit—but it wasn’t til Operation Cinder that I saw first hand how awful the people I was working for were. Not a day goes by where I don’t regret signing up with them—for having a hand in any part of what they've done. But you can’t change the past so I kept on going.

“Fell into the unground, like you do when you’re an ex-terrorist. Bounced from job to job not carrying what I did—who I fucked over.” Migs squeezes the hands within his own, “Something I’m sure you remember being intimately familiar with.”

It’s beyond fucked up to think about how poorly their first meeting went and yet here they are. He was ready, willing to double-cross this man, and for what? A few extra credits? Turning a blind eye to the fact that the man was a father? It sickens Migs to think that if things had gone according to the plan that Din would be rotting in a prison ship and his little kid would have never known why his father hadn't come back. More than likely the kid would have been picked up by Gideon sooner rather than later and had who knows what done to him.

“Fuck Din,” Migs lets out a pained sigh. “I—What I did? What I almost succeeded in doing to you? I can never ask your forgiveness for it—I already know I would never be deserving of it—” Migs lifts Din’s hands up between them so he can press his lips against them for a moment. 

“But I swear to you, that I’ll do whatever I can from here on out to make up for it. To be a better person for you. I know I can never be good—but I could be better. Will be.

“I had a lot of time to think while in that prison colony, about what had gotten me there. About what kind of person I was to end up in a place like that and how much I deserved it. I was mad—I’m always mad—but I was mostly mad at myself. I had gone through my entire life with the idea that it was pointless to try and be the good guy, had seen too many of that type stepped on in life. 

“But then I met a good guy—you,” Migs pauses for dramatic effect as Din listens intently. “And you kicked my fucking ass! Badly.” Din lets out a surprised sound of laughter and Migs joins in. “Kind of hard to have a superiority complex when you’re laid out on your back like that. 

“When I wasn’t working on taking apart imperial scrap on that heap of a planet I spent my time thinking. Really thinking for a change—not much else to do during a 50-year sentence. I thought about you—the first and only Mando I had met and how instead of falling short of the stories I was raised on—

“You surpassed them.” 

“I wasn’t—” Din begins but Migs cuts him off.

“Don’t sell yourself short. In the wilds of the rim? Finding a man of your caliber is rarer than a sliver of kyber in a field of glass. Your type doesn’t last long—at least I didn’t think it did cause I never saw it—but maybe I was looking in all the wrong places.

“Anyway,” he waves off the subject, “The point is that seeing you succeed without compromising your morals? It made me realize that I had been taking the easy way out my entire life—and when we worked together on Morak? When I saw what you were willing to do for your kid? 

“I realized that maybe I wanted to be better. To be someone worth knowing—someone like you.”

Din blinks rapidly as a crashing wave of emotions rolls across his face. His eyebrows squeeze together and then relax, his lips twitching—like he doesn’t even know what to do with his face—but it is his eyes that speak the loudest. They shine brightly, the focal point of the room.

“I don’t know what to say,” Din admits, ducking his head shyly. “I don’t think I am someone worth aspiring to be.”

“And that’s one of the biggest reasons you are worth looking up to.” Migs counters, “You aren’t trying to be good, you genuinely just _are good_. It is who you are as a person, not some—some damn act. You give a shit because you care—not because you think you have to. And certainly not because it will earn you any fucking points.

“I look at you and I see a Mando with a heart of gold—no fucking beskar—just trying to make it through the galaxy. And not by stepping on others on your way up—no you have the fucking gall to reach out a helping hand to those of us who have fallen by the side.” 

Migs surprises himself with the impromptu impassioned speech. He hadn’t realized he cared so much before he started talking—God he’s really got to learn to think before he speaks.

Din looks like he’s going to cry—ah fuck! He fucked up again. His mind races as he goes over what he just said trying to pick out what he said to upset Din but in the next moment he has his hands full.

Din breathes out a strangled sound into the space between Migs’s neck and shoulder as he throws himself at Migs. Strong arms wrap around Migs’s back and squeeze tight—by far the strongest grip Din has used with Migs since they started the whole touching thing. He’s normally so careful with his touches, Migs must have really hit a soft spot.

“Thank you,” His voice trembles with emotion, melting the worry in Migs’s heart. Din’s fingers press tightly against Migs’s back and he holds on before sliding to Migs’s sides as he moves to put space between them once more. Migs gives him a squeeze in turn before he lets the other man go to sit back on though he remains much closer than before. Nor does he take his hands back from Migs’s body immediately—his touch lingering on Migs’s hips for a moment before moving to rest on the bed between them.

Nice.

His own hands linger on Din, though he is not so bold as to touch the other man’s hips. It is more than clear that Din’s touch was innocent in nature—his own would be anything but. He pulls back running his hands along Din’s arms until he can reclaim those hands within his own.

“So anyway,” Migs says, clearing his throat, “that’s a very brief history on me, now I won’t ask you yours—I know I’d just put my foot in my mouth again asking the wrong thing—but whatever you want to tell me? I’m listening.”

Din is quiet for a moment, always so careful with his words and how he says them.

“I was born on Aq Vetina,” the name sounds familiar but Migs can’t quite place it. “I don’t remember much of it—but I remember I was happy.” Dread grows in the pit of his stomach, Migs does not like Din’s tone, and he likes the past tense even less.

“We were attacked, my parents—they hid me,” He glances up at Migs then back down at their joined hands, “They died to protect me, but it would have been for nothing if it were not for The Tribe. They saved me from the extermination droids and gave me a home. A family.

“A way of life when I was lost and afraid.” 

Fuck, no wonder the creed is such a big deal to him. It was likely all that he had to cling onto after such a loss. Migs’s dad was a real fucking piece of work but his mom was great—and even if it was just him and his dad, that still would have been better than being alone.

A muscle in Din’s jaw twitches and clenches as he struggles to continue, but after a moment he just shakes his head. 

“Grogu, my tribe. I can’t—” Din cuts himself off, Migs leans forward so that their foreheads touch.

“Whenever you’re ready—or never I don’t give a shit,” Migs starts, “I would be the biggest hypocrite in the galaxy—I have my own shit I can’t even think about, let alone talk about. So, it’s—it’s fine. I get it.” 

Din smiles a little sadly at that but doesn’t ask. Just like Migs won’t ask. Although there is something he does want to ask about that he is pretty damn sure won’t be a landmine.

“Hey,” He says softly looking into Din’s eyes as he takes one of his hands to grip the back of Din’s neck. Brown eyes slide shut on their own, just like Migs thought they might. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask, what is this?” He squeezes Din’s neck lightly for emphasis.

“I know it’s gotta mean something with how your eyes go soft every time we do it.” Din’s eyes go wide and he, honest to God, ducks his head as a deep blush breaks out over his face. Color me fucking curious, Migs thinks surprised by the strong reaction.

Din pulls back out of the embrace slightly, a guilty expression on his face. His eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere but at Migs—Nah he ain’t having that. Migs lightly touches Din’s cheek so that he looks up at Migs once more.

“What? It can’t be that bad,” Migs says but Din is hesitant to speak. “Look, I’ve been around the galaxy a time or two and I’ve seen and done some. . .questionable things in my day. Whatever this means to you, to your people? It’s probably nothing half as bad as _anything_ I did back in my twenties.” 

Din mumbles something too quiet to understand. 

“What was that?” Migs asks, Din lets out a sigh before he squares his shoulders back—like he’s facing down an enemy rather than his husband.

“It’s. . .it’s a kiss.” His stomach flips a little, “My people, because of the creed, we cannot openly display affection like others.” 

“Wait—” Migs begins, his head spinning. “So we’ve been making out this whole time?” Din goes positively scarlet. 

“I don’t—” he starts.

“Oh man, this is great! Wait—it wasn’t like inappropriate or anything when we did this around the others was it? I wouldn’t want you to get a reputation as _promiscuous_ with your people or anything.”

“No, it’s not—I don’t even—what?” Din is beyond flustered—it’s a good look on him. Part of Migs wants to push it and see how far he can rile up Din but he resists. If just barely. 

“Alright, sorry. I’ll stop teasing you.” Migs relents, though it takes a few moments for Din to get a hold of himself again. Longer still for the blush to recede.

“It is _kov’nyn_ , a headbutt. An attack, but between Mandalorians we call it a keldabe kiss.” 

Migs isn’t sure why he’s surprised that they would take a vicious attack and adopt it as a form of affection—he really shouldn’t be surprised by something like this at this point and yet he is. 

“It is a greeting, more than what the rest of the galaxy would call a kiss. We are not an affectionate people,” Migs holds back a sarcastic comment, but only just barely. “But a keldabe kiss is permissible, though it is most often shared between those with strong bonds—not something I’ve had in a long time. Not since my _buir_ , my father died.”

Well fuck.

“But between those who are _tome_ ,” Din continues as if he hadn’t just casually mentioned his adoptive father's death. “It holds a deeper meaning, more like what most the galaxy considers a kiss. I don’t know what making out is so I can’t speak of that.”

“You’ve never—” Migs starts and then stops. “Of course you fucking haven’t if you never take off the helmet. Wait, wait, wait. So you weren’t born a Mandalorian, but you were raised as one—when you do take the creed? How old were you?”

“It is a right of passage, a sign of adulthood so it varies from person to person,” Din says before he licks his lips and a look of pride enters his eyes. “I was 15 when I took the creed.”

Son of a bitch. He’s spent more time behind the helmet than out of it. No fucking wonder he was such a wreck without it back on Morak. Fucking hell. Migs clamps down on the half dozen things he wants to say—wants to yell about how fucked it is to let a _kid_ make a choice like that—but it's how Din was raised. It’s easy to see that he truly believes in it—

“Wait, wait hold up. Okay, so you’re telling me that I forced someone who hasn’t shown his face for 22 years to do it in front of a room full of fucking _imperials_ of all people?” Migs pushes himself back away from Din and gets to his feet. He paces the room for a moment rubbing his hands over his face. “All because I was too much of a coward to face Hess—I made you—fuck!”

He turns back to look at Din sitting on the bed, his face holding no blame. Because of course, he wouldn’t blame Migs even though he deserves it. This fucking guy.

“I made my choice, it was my decision to break my creed—not yours.” Din’s voice is strong, it brokers no argument. “You have saved my creed more than once. If it were not for you, I could not continue to call myself Mandalorian.” Din stands and moves over to where Migs is pacing. He reaches out, stopping Migs with a hand on his arm.

“I do not blame you,” His eyes bore into Migs, willing him to understand. “I am. . .I am more grateful for you—grateful to have you than you can know. What you have done for me, what you continue to do for me? A greater kindness than I have ever known. Please do not be upset about what has passed, it is already forgotten.”

Migs isn’t going to cry. He doesn’t cry—not sure if he’s even capable of it anymore. But hearing that? Said so sincerely, from someone like Din? Well, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little emotional. 

Just a little.

That would be his excuse for pulling Din in against him and crushing him against his chest without warning. Din lets out a little ‘oof’ as the force of the hug knocks the air from his lungs. He recovers quickly, wrapping his arms around Migs and holding on just as tight.

They spend long minutes just holding onto one another. Swaying gently in the middle of the room, not a word spoken—not one needed. 

Whatever tricks of fate or moves of the force that worked to bring them together like this? Migs is grateful—and like hell is he letting anything come between them now that they’ve found each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the story has taken a darker turn than I thought it would so next chapter may take a while to get out. Why I gotta make this complicated? Smh--But don't worry too much I have a plan!
> 
> Part of a plan.
> 
> Like 20% of a plan...
> 
> I have an idea!
> 
> This will be fine.


	6. Tome, Riduurok--  What's the difference?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _puts off advancing the plot yet again and is shocked by the increasing word count_
> 
> B-but feelings :3

After several very productive hours spent cuddling while getting to know little things about each other—such as Din’s favorite color being green for obvious reasons, or that he knows how to speak 6?! languages passably if not fluently—their stomachs demand food. Migs is reluctant to leave the safe little bubble of their room. He knows that all too soon they’ll be forced to deal with _things_ and he really hates dealing with things. 

He hates it even more when he’s right.

They don’t even make it to the mess before they run into trouble in the form of one angry redhead. Migs knows better than to fuck with someone who has had bad shit like this dredged back up. She’d squash him like a bug.

So they end up putting off their meal by two hours as the Mandos discuss options while Migs and Cara listen on the sidelines. They share quite a few looks, but neither of them has any business butting into Mandalorian affairs so they keep their opinions to themselves. Though it is nice to see that she shares his sentiment on the decision that is reached.

“There is an underground temple buried deep beneath a sacred mountain,” Bo-Katan speaks quietly as if sharing a secret—mindful of the two outsiders in their presence. “Not many Mandalorians would even know of it. Within the temple resides one of the first forges where beskar was first smelted—and even more important than that is the library that holds all of our recorded history.”

Din’s helmet jerks as he tilts his head to the side in confusion. Bo-Katan gives him a look that would make anyone hold their tongue.

“I know those of the Death Watch follow the old ways of spoken history, but memories are fallible.“ Her eyes narrow in challenge, “And those who should pass the tales down even more so.” 

Din goes unnaturally still. Ouch, she sure knows how to hit where it will hurt the most.

“The library of Mandalore,” she continues as if she hadn't just hit Din with a verbal cheap shot, “holds the history of our people, the founding blocks upon which we can rebuild. Without the knowledge stored in the temple we would forever be split tribes—we need it to unite our people.

“With any luck, it might also still hold the royal stores of beskar.” Fucking should have led with that, Migs thinks sitting up straight from where he had been leaning against a console. “For our future, the foundlings, we will need that the most. We can’t hope to repopulate on our own—especially with so many choosing childless matches.”

Migs shrugs and makes a ‘that’s fair’ face. Din nods his head acknowledging it, but the tone was without any heat. Not intended as a dig against Din, just a statement of fact. Bo-Katan shares a glance with her right hand and—

Oh. That makes a lot of sense actually. 

Well shit, Migs feels like an asshole now. Just going and assuming that she was Bo-Katan’s lapdog when she is actually her right hand in every meaning of the word—real dick move on his part. Shit, that means he should probably learn her name. 

Awkward.

“The foundlings must come first,” Din speaks up for the first time in so many minutes. Bo-Katan turns to him and tilts her head in agreement.

“Finally something we can agree on,” She turns back to the room at large. “We must secure the temple and salvage what we can. What we will do after? There will be time to _discuss_ it at length. We have already wasted too much of the day, let's not waste any more.”

“Agreed,” Din says with a nod.

“But—” Bo-Katan interjects before anyone can move. “No outsiders. We let them enter our homeworld once and lost it due to their influence and actions—I will not stand for Mandalore to be desecrated further.”

“I have no objections,” Cara says holding her arms out in front of her. “The republic has no business messing with Mandalorian affairs if you ask me.” 

Bo-Katan turns to Migs expectantly, Migs opens his mouth to say much the same as Cara had but Din’s hand cuts through the air.

“Where I go, he goes. We are _tome_.” Migs’s mouth shuts with a click as he stares at the beskar helmet wishing he could see inside. 

“ _Tome?_ ” Bo-Katan scoffs, “What _did_ they teach you, child of the watch? Sure you can fight with the best of us—but you know so little of your own culture. Tell me, what do you know of _riduurok_? Do you even know what it is?” Din’s back stiffens.

“It was not practiced within the tribe,” he admits. “It was—I was raised to believe that the bond forged two people was no one’s business but their own.” He says the last part as if it were a challenge. 

“Quaint,” the way she says it makes Migs’s hackles rise. “But if you haven’t done the ceremony then he is still an outsider.”

“In your eyes—not mine.” Din’s stance shifts so he is loose on his feet, something that doesn’t go unnoticed. The air becomes thick with tension. “What makes your way correct and mine wrong? The creeds we follow are not the same, but I have come to accept it does not make either of us any less of a Mandalorian.”

Migs’s eyes flick between Bo-Katan, her right hand, and Din. Fuck.

“Hey,” he says trying to break through the tension in the room. He holds his hands out well away from the blaster on his hip in the universal sign of peace. “It’s not a big deal—”

“It is,” Din interrupts, Migs shoots him a look begging him to stop—and well shit this feels familiar doesn’t it? This must have been how Din had felt back on Morak when he wouldn’t just let it go and ended up shooting Hess where he sat. Hopefully, this turns out better.

He was looking forward to a week without being shot at.

“You speak of uniting our people and yet you do not respect my creed. My way of life.” Even though the helmet’s speakers, the anger in Din’s voice is palpable. “I did not understand before, the great disrespect in which I spoke when I said you were not Mandalorian. I do not claim to know much, but I know that I was wrong then—just as you are wrong in this now.”

For someone who speaks so rarely, he has a certain way with words. Maybe Migs spoke too soon when he thought that Din would be a terrible leader. 

Bo-Katan and Din stare each other down in silence for a moment that seems to stretch on forever, though Migs knows it couldn’t have been more than ten seconds tops before the tension breaks. Bo-Katan throws her head back letting out a laugh. She tilts her head and her lips curve into a smile.

“Perhaps you aren’t _entirely_ unfit to wield the darksaber after all.” And just like that everyone relaxes in the room. She turns her eyes to Migs, sizing him up before nodding. “While I wouldn’t have chosen someone,” she wrinkles her nose, “like him—he did prove himself a capable warrior and fit to be your chosen. 

“I won’t dispute his right to remain by your side as _riduur_.” She bows her head towards Din. “Then it’s settled. We’ll take my ship down to the surface within the hour. Ready yourselves.” And with that, she sweeps out of the room with her. . . _wife_ hot on her heels. 

Migs checks the time, they’ve got roughly 20 minutes. Plenty of time to get a few answers out of his husband before they leave for the surface. 

“You have got so much explaining to do,” Cara says before side-eyeing Migs. “But I can see I’ll have to wait in line. When you get back though? We’re gonna have a nice, long talk Din—we still haven’t sorted how the hell,” she gestures wildly between the two of them with a disgusted look on her face, “any of _that_ happened. So you better not try and duck out of it.” 

“I’ll make sure he isn’t late for your dinner date,” Migs says, earning a staticky sigh from his husband as Migs throws him under the speeder. Cara gives him a smile that is all teeth and claps him painfully on the shoulder as she walks past. 

Migs shakes his head as he watches her leave. Shock troopers, no wonder she gets on so well with the Mandos. 

“How about we grab lunch before we head down—I get the feeling we won’t be so keen on eating when we get back.” 

“Probably wise.” Din agrees following Migs to the mess. On the way, Bo-Katan and her wife pass by them with their own meals in hand. Great minds and all that jazz. Migs grabs the first two meals he sees at random not caring about the contents. He just needs the calories and he doubts he’ll be paying enough attention to taste his food. 

“So uh, what was that thing she was talking about anyway?” Migs asks after he’s put half the food away once they’ve returned to their room to eat. He gestures with his fork between the two of them. “What’s the difference between _tome_ and uhh. . .”

“ _Riduurok,_ ” Din says after he swallows a bite of his food.

“Yeah, that. I thought you said we were married already back on Morak.”

“We were. We are,” Din says carefully setting his empty tray to the side. He turns his full attention to Migs. Oh looks like serious conversation time, Migs thinks as he quickly finishes off his food and sets the tray aside. 

“We revealed our true selves to one another and named names. A bond forged in the heat of battle is not so easily broken.” Din shifts slightly in discomfort. “Though you did not understand its true significance at the time, the bond—our bond was real, _is_ real.” Din shakes his head, his eyes bright.

“I did not understand it then either, but this bond between us? The pull I feel towards you even when you are not near? We are _tome_ , together even when we are parted—that feeling is all that is required for us to be considered _riduur_ —spouses. The ceremony, _riduurok_ , is nothing more than giving name to the feelings in our hearts before the tribe matriarch and receiving her blessing.”

Migs is stunned speechless—no small feat. Din just—fuck he just came right out and said that didn’t he? His heartbeat thunders in his ears and his chest feels tight. He had been feeling _things_ but he hadn’t put any thought into it. In fact, he had been actively avoiding thinking about said feelings—let alone acknowledging them.

Three. Goddamn. Days. That’s all it has taken to turn a hardened criminal into a blushing schoolgirl falling head over heels for someone way out of his league. For fuck’s sake, he’s an embarrassment. 

Twenty two Kills on his record as an Imperial sharpshooter, double that during his criminal days, and an entire fucking base of Imperials on his wedding day—and he can’t even open his mouth to say something—anything at all. Instead, he just sits here leaving Din hanging after saying all that. What a fucking piece of work he is.

“With my tribe scattered the ceremony would not be possible even if you wished it.” Din continues oblivious to the fact that his husband is having an existential crisis not two feet from him. “I don’t even know if any survived the last attack, but if any did it would have been her.”

It’s a coward’s way out but he just moves to take Din’s hands offering him physical support instead of saying anything. He hates himself for copping out like this. Wishing he were better—but he’s not. 

At least not yet. 

They only have a few more minutes before they have to leave anyway. Another excuse and he knows it. All he would have to say is that he feels the same pull—it’s not like there has to be some love confession or anything. They are nowhere near _that_ , but there is no denying that he does feel _something_ for Din. A feeling that keeps growing and shows no signs of slowing down.

He can’t say anything back, doesn’t dare to so he does the only thing he can—he pulls in Din for a kel-keldable kiss? It’s the first time he’s done it since he found out what it really means to Din.

This time, It’s not only Din’s eyes that flutter shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I swear I'll be getting into some plot and story development NEXT CHAPTER--but I was too excited and wanted to post _something_ today since I am super excited.  
> I did a _thing_ , but I may have jumped the gun a bit so now I'll be racing to get to a scene I've had in mind for a loooooong while now. I will probably lose said race--but perhaps y'all can enjoy the flurry of mad dash panic writing along the way xD
> 
>   
> _excited author noises_
> 
> Maybe I'll just not sleep for the rest of the week and maybe--just maybe I'll make it in time. ha ha ha...
> 
> x Doubt
> 
> Also, two parts of this one were for two lovely commenters, you'll know them when you see them <3


	7. Hand in Hand We Walk Through The Halls of Mandalore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ew plot. gross.  
> This chapter was a pain in my butt and I frankly don't like how it turned out...but I'd rather move on to things I want to write now that I've gotten this out of the way. We can return to our regularly scheduled feelings shortly. 
> 
> Endnotes will just be me ranting and raving about stuff that doesn't really matter about star wars logic so feel welcome to skip them. :) Seriously It is like 3k words of a rant about language.  
> Sorry. xD

When Migs takes his first step on Mandalore it is with trepidation, a feeling he’s not had much experience with before now. He’s felt the rush of adrenaline, the fear before a mission, anxiety over returning to the base on Morak—But he’s never stepped foot on a truly dead world before. Not barren, but dead. Slagged from orbit and burned until not a living, breathing creature remained on its surface.

Until now.

It feels wrong, deeply wrong to be here. Bo-Katan was right—he doesn’t belong. He can feel it in his bones, in the way the heat and air rest heavily in his lungs. He’s never really put much stock in religion—and if he hadn’t seen Vader himself he wouldn’t believe in the force either—but standing here?

He can feel the weight of millions of lost souls bearing down on him. Judging him. With each step he takes he feels like he’s one step closer to his doom—as if the planet knows—can see into his burnout soul and knows what kind of man he is. The things he’s done while working for the very people who destroyed the planet and nearly wiped out the people who once inhabited it.

He would rather be almost anywhere else in the galaxy over being here—but Din spoke up for him. Risked his neck to make sure that Migs’s place by his side was without question. 

So he's going to fucking suck it up and deal. Din is here facing the dead homeworld of his people—a people on the verge of extinction. Migs has no right to feel anything. 

Turning to his side where Din walks beside him Migs stops and reaches out taking Din’s gloved hand within his own. Din turns his head, his beskar helmet staring into Migs—it is a heavy look even with the armor on. Din’s hand squeezes his own briefly, his gloved thumb lightly tracing along Migs’s thumb and the side of his hand.

Migs had meant it as a moment of comfort but Din only briefly pauses stepping closer to Migs before adjusting their hands to lace their fingers together before he continues walking. A light tug on Migs’s hand reminds him to move and so they walk on. Hand in hand.

Like a real couple.

Because that’s what they are isn’t it? Migs hadn’t really let himself think about it—this was a thing born of convenience. They both got something they wanted out of the deal. That should have been that and yet somehow, despite everything, Migs finds himself caring. Actually giving a shit about someone other than himself. 

And not in the ‘it would be inconvenient if this guy got offed’ but caring about. . .he hates to even think it, but another person’s _feelings_. To the point that it affects his own. 

But it isn’t all bad, Migs thinks. Like this? How they are supporting each other, how much better the both of them feel with each other's support? That’s nice. Really fucking nice, he thinks brushing his thumb against Din’s who returns the favor as they walk hand in hand through the desert.

Migs isn’t sure if Din is feeling the same giddy feeling as him now that he’s realized that this is _real_ , or at least has the possibility of becoming real in the future but he likes to think that he is. That he’s not the only one affected by this growing thing between them. 

Either way, the world seems a whole lot less menacing with Din’s hand in his.

The walk to the mountain, then through a series of well-hidden secret tunnels probably would have been really interesting. Migs probably would have enjoyed the sights, the unique architectural choices chosen by a warrior race for the lead up to their version of a holy site. 

Too bad he wasn’t paying attention. 

Instead, he was watching Din. Paying attention to how his helmet would tilt as he looked at something, the way his hold of Migs’s hand would grow loose as he focused his attention on it—before holding tight once more. 

Bo-Katan is speaking, telling the history of the place and probably going on about its cultural importance—and Migs should pay attention. He really knows he should but he just. . .

Doesn’t really fucking care.

He’s never been big on history and him and religion? Never mixed. Bunch of bullshit he never needed—but if it helped someone get through their day he wasn’t going to judge. Whatever helps them sleep at night in an uncaring galaxy. That part of it was fine, but he just didn’t get the whole guilt thing a lot of them did. 

Life is hard enough as is. Why add extra rules that you know you’re just gonna end up breaking? Like what’s the point of that? But he knew better and kept this shit to himself for the most part unless he was trying to goad someone. 

Not unlike when he had harassed Din about the helmet. He feels bad about it, will probably always feel regret when he thinks about it, but what’s done is done. He might not be able to understand it but he could respect it.

As long as it didn’t affect him personally? He could give two shits about what people did with their lives.

Although, he never imagined he’d be _married_ to someone who was. So he’s got some thinking to do because Din’s creed? It affects them both. 

With that in mind, he starts paying attention to Bo-Katan. He knows fuck all about Mando culture and considering he’s holding hands with their ruler right now? It’s well past time he started to learn.

“. . .You should be familiar with the old ways that favored strength and combat prowess above all else, but do you know the history behind those practices?” Bo-Katan asks Din’s silence is the only answer she needs. “I didn’t think so. Not really the Death Watch’s style. They preferred secrecy and backstabbing.”

“Strong words,” Din says, his modulated voice even. “You speak so openly against them—why? What did they do to make you hate them so?” 

Bo-Katan’s face does a complicated thing. Anger, grief, regret, and loss mix together. Her wife, Migs hasn’t overheard her name yet and he sure as fuck isn’t asking now, says something softly in their language to Bo-Katan. Their heads bow together in a keldable kiss—and wow okay Migs is an idiot to not have realized what that meant sooner. 

He hadn’t realized Bo-Katan could look soft. It makes him uncomfortable to view her like this—like a regular person with vulnerabilities. It’s so much easier to go through life being an asshole when you don’t stop to get to know someone, or heaven forbid see them in a vulnerable moment.

“They destroyed Mandalore,” she says gripping her wife’s hand within her own, “and I helped them do it.” She meets each of their eyes as she says it. Her jaw is clenched, both shame and defiance in her eyes.

“I was once a member, a very long time ago—lured by Pre Vizsla’s speeches about bringing back the glory of the olden days.” Din’s hand within his own twitches, “We stagnated as a people, my sister, the duchess was a proponent of the pacifist movement that had swept through our people—

“But I thought differently,” her lips curve into a smile that doesn’t touch her eyes. “We used to always fight as children, we never got along but to go as far as I did? To fight against my own kin? To betray her as I did?”

Bo-Katan spits on the ground and mutters something that would probably be considered impolite in her native tongue. 

“I did not deserve to call myself Mandalorian—my actions were against the foundations on which makes us Mandalorian. The very way I sought to reestablish,” she shakes her head and takes a deep breath, her next words coming out through clenched teeth. “And all for that kriffing snake Vizsla who only sought to gain power for himself. 

“He used his pretty words to sway us, but in the end, he was nothing more than an oath breaker, worth less than a dog.” Bo-Katan squares her shoulders, her usual ‘just try and fuck with me’ face back in full force. “The founder of the Death Watch allowed an outsider to take the throne and started a civil war that tore our people apart.

“ _That_ is the legacy in which you follow, child of the watch. And you know nothing of it, and that is why the library is so important,” her tone softens, if only just slightly. “I was ignorant once, and it cost me my sister, my home, and nearly all of my people. I won’t allow you to make the same mistake.”

It gets really quiet after that. Her words less of a threat and more of a promise now that Migs has context. 

Din nods his head in acceptance, Migs does the same—not really sure what to say to all _that_. If there is anything anyone can say after hearing shit like that. The way she stares at Din as if she is trying to see through the beskar makes Migs’s skin crawl in sympathy for his private husband—while also feeling bad for Bo-Katan who will never be able to look Din in the eyes and know him as Migs does.

He hates that he feels sympathy for her, for anyone other than Din. The man is his husband, he’s supposed to care—she’s no one to him. He shouldn’t give a flying fuck, doesn’t want to. The less people he cares for the less he’ll be hurt when something happens. 

Because something always happens. 

So he pushes those invasive and unwanted feelings aside. They have no business here and now—they’ve got shit to do. 

The next who knows how long is spent in silence—but not the comfortable silence Migs has gotten used to with Din. This one is oppressive and suffocating. Migs can feel the walls of the tunnels closing in around them as they go deeper and deeper within the mountain temple. The air is stale and the only light comes from them.

The Mandos he walks with are quiet but they don’t seem to be as affected by their surroundings as he is. Din had mentioned that his tribe had lived underground in the tunnels below Navarro, maybe being underground is a Mando thing. He thinks of the slagged capital city—or maybe it’s a learned thing since the fall of their homeworld.

Either way, Migs is not a fan. He loves being out in the open air with a small sun or two shining down on his face. If he had to live underground for any period of time he’d lose it. 

Sure he has spent more than his fair share of time hiding out underground after a gig laying low and all that. But he didn’t actually have to live there—it was always temporary and he’d move on as soon as the heat let up. 

Bo-Katan had argued for the return to Mandalore—even after what they had found. A ruined world, the resources long since stolen away or burned to the ground. To the ground being the key point she had argued. Below the surface, there lay extensive cave systems with untapped resources.

The empire would not have known of them, it had been thousands of years since the Mandalorians of old had stopped hiding in their caves and begun living above ground. They could rebuild, return to their roots in the most literal of ways, she had argued—but if you asked Migs, which no one would, it would be bad luck to come back. 

Tragedies on this level don’t just get better over time. The loss of life here is a blight on the entire world. Be that some force shit, divine punishment, or whatever else you wanted to call it. This place was well and truly cursed. 

Resettling Mandalore could only end in tragedy. Better to leave it to rest in peace. No good will come of a prolonged stay here. They need to grab what they can and never come back. 

But he has no say. 

No real stake in it other than wanting to stay as far as he can from it. Din had been quiet as he listened to Bo-Katan’s impassioned speech not voicing an opinion one way or another. He only said that a decision of that magnitude would require more than just three voices, something Bo-Katan could not argue against.

It would be decided en mass once the call for all Mandalorians to return had been answered. Something that would take days, weeks, maybe even months to happen with how scattered their people had become. 

Din hadn’t even known there was a tribe other than his own. Somehow, against all odds, he had gone through his entire life without meeting a Mandalorian from another tribe until just these last couple of months. It shouldn’t have been possible with Din’s reputation proceeding him. Even Migs had heard of the Mando back before he signed up for the prison break gig. But he hadn’t heard more than rumors of any other Mandos.

Were they just that good at hiding? Or were there really so few left?

Reclaiming their homeworld, rebuilding their lost culture—none of this is going to be quick, nor easy. It’s going to be a long drawn out process and if he has a choice he wants no part in it. He’s no Mando—just married to one. 

Married to their fucking leader. For fuck’s sake he knows he’s going to be dragged into this mess one way or another. Because really? Could he in good conscience watch Din struggle with this and _not_ try and help? 

Not a fucking chance.

They turn a corner and come up upon a tall metal door—

“Is that made of fucking _beskar_?” His mouth opens entirely on his own. Great, the first thing he’s said in the last half hour and those are the words he chooses. In their holy temple. Fucking classic Mayfeld right here.

If looks could kill—well, he’d be dead a thousand times over by this point in his life being the kind of person he is—but the one Bo-Katan turns on him? It's in a class of its own. He can see the gears turning in her head, the regret she feels for allowing an outsider here. How much she would like to put him in his place for the disrespect. 

Migs cringes internally, his mother had always told him his mouth would get him in trouble if he never learned to control it. And boy was she ever right—his big, fat mouth is going to get his ass killed one of these days. 

But not this day, at least not yet.

“Sorry—I’m, I’m a fucking idiot,” Migs apologizes. Bo-Katan looks like she swallowed something bitter and her wife is no better. “I’ll just—I’ll just not talk.”

“Good,” she spits out through clenched teeth before letting out a silent sigh. “But yes—that is beskar. The royal stores I spoke of? This is what I meant. Everything small would have been looted or taken by survivors as they fled. All that remains is like this.”

She runs a gloved hand across the beskar tracing some of the engraved symbols along its surface. Many he recognizes as animals of some sort or another though not any he’s ever encountered. Native to the planet and gone extinct much like the rest of the world no doubt.

“Unmovable, priceless relics from our past,” Bo-Katan takes her hand off of the door. “A pity we’ll have to melt it down for the foundlings. But this is the way.” The other Mandos tilt their heads and repeat the phrase.

An important phrase to their people. Maybe it’s their version of ‘may the force be with you’ or something like that. He doesn’t know the significance behind it, all he knows is that he feels even more like an outsider being the only one to remain silent. 

Is this what Din feels around the rest of the galaxy all the time? 

No wonder he doesn’t talk much. Migs is almost afraid to open his mouth again at this point. He knows he’ll just end up sticking his foot in his fucking mouth again. Say the wrong thing—or say the right thing in the wrong way or at the wrong time. No fucking thanks. 

Bo-Katan pulls a lever and the door swings open to reveal a short hallway that branches to the left and the right. Once they reach the crossroads Migs can see that there are two more doors at the end of each long hall—both made of beskar. He’s never seen so much beskar in his life, the three doors are worth more than entire _systems_. 

And they’re going to slag them down for foundlings they haven't even _found_ yet. 

“To the right is the forge, and to the left the library,” Bo-Katan tells them, acting as their tour guide as she leads them down the left hallway. 

As they get closer Migs can make out the symbols on the door, very different from the last one they went through. Whereas that one was covered in carved pictures of animals and beasts, this one is lined with row after row of symbols aligned in neat columns. 

“What is this? I’ve seen some of these symbols before.” Din asks, trailing his finger along one of the symbols. Migs’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach as Bo-Katan turns to give Din an incredulous look. 

“You’re joking,” Din’s silence is deafening. “Did they—” she stops, her lips twisting in anger. “Did they really teach you so little that you would not recognize your own language?”

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

Gloved fingers twitch where they trace a symbol. Din pulls his hand back as if burned, turning to look at Bo-Katan as if he can’t believe her words. Even with the helmet on, it’s easy to see how her words have affected him. Din's posture goes from his usual confident stance to something far more vulnerable. 

He curls in on himself and takes a subtle step back. His outstretched fingers curling into a fist as he pulls his arms back to his sides. It pains Migs to see him like this.

Migs knew this wasn’t going to be a fucking vacation—they are on a dead world after all—but he didn’t think it would be something personal to Din. Sure, he expected him to be upset—who wouldn’t be upset to be standing in the ruins of his people? But this was never his world, never his home. Migs had thought—God he doesn’t know what he thought was going to happen but it sure as fuck wasn’t this.

Subtly, Din moves his back against the wall, taking a defensive position—not that it will do him any good. Not when what is hurting him is inescapable. A gift passed down from those who raised him—an all too familiar thing to Migs.

“Is this some sort of sick joke?” Bo-Katan’s wife mutters under her breath but not so quietly that they can’t hear. “Our _Mand’alor_ can’t even read.” Bo-Katan hisses something at her wife but the damage is done. Din tilts his head up at them from where he’s leaning in on himself his shame evident in every line of his armor.

“I—” Din sounds so lost and unsure. “I didn’t—”

Ignoring the other Mandos Migs steps up in front of Din and reaches out. He places his hands on either side of Din’s helmet, Din’s hands snake out and grip his wrists. Afraid. Migs just leans down and presses in for a keldable kiss. A sharp intake of breath over the speakers, only loud enough for Migs to hear. The grip on his wrists turns desperate and painful but Migs doesn’t let up, if anything he leans into the contact.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Migs whispers so only Din will hear. “I can’t read that chicken scratch either.” It’s a bad joke, a terrible one but maybe that’s why it works. A surprised huff of static over the speakers and all at once the crushing grip on his wrists loosens. 

Migs stares into the visor where Din’s eyes are, he can almost see them if he imagines hard enough. The hands on his wrists pull lightly and Migs lets his hands be pulled down and away from Din’s helmet though he does not let go.

Din pulls his hands down against his chest. Over his heart—and he holds them there. For one moment that turns into two, and then three before he gives a light squeeze and lets go—but to Migs? 

It felt like both an eternity and no time at all. A throat being cleared has him blinking back into reality. He had forgotten they had an audience but you know what? Even if he hadn’t forgotten? It wouldn’t have changed anything.

He doesn’t give a flying fuck what they think about him. Din needed him, so he went to him. Simple as that. Fuck anyone and everyone who has something to say about it. He turns around ready to start an argument but is met by bowed heads. Migs looks over his shoulder at Din who has regained his composure for the most part, though he remains wary and loose in his stance.

“You should not have to suffer any more than you already are for your clan’s transgressions,” Bo-Katan says as she lifts her head looking at Din. Her expression seems sincere, Migs glances at Bo-Katan’s wife but she looks as defiant as she always does—if not a little put out to have been reprimanded. 

“We have data pads for the foundlings on my ship, your—” she trails off as if searching for the right word before settling on the least offensive one. “ _lacking education_ can remain a secret between us while you work to correct it.” She grinds her teeth and her eyes flick to the ground and back up again.

“The shame you bear? It is just as much mine as it is yours. If I had been better, if I had seen the evil truth hiding among Viszla’s lies sooner—a many great things would have been different.” There is a pause of silence before Din speaks up.

“Thank you,” Din says, his sincerity bleeding through his helmet’s speakers. He nods his head towards Bo-Katan and she inclines hers as well. Her wife, expression still sour, joins in bowing her head. 

Well, that could have gone worse—could have gone better but his standards for a good day have never been great. Any day that ends without someone he knows dead? Ain’t bad. The rest of them must be of the same mind because they move on without further comment.

They enter the library, the only sounds are their footsteps echoing in the large room. The ceilings must go up a good 30 feet, and the walls from floor to ceiling are filled with books. There must be thousands in the room.

He’s never been a book smarts sort of guy. Always preferred street smarts as they stood a better chance of keeping him alive. So his interest in the room? Nearly zero. 

Din though? He’s in awe from the way his hands pass over the books but not touching. For someone who can’t read a single word within their pages, he seems mighty interested. Makes sense. After all, he can speak at least 6 languages, this is probably one of his very few hobbies outside of his work. 

It's fucking criminal that he can’t read his own people’s history. 

Although if he’s interested in that sort of thing Migs can’t imagine it taking him long to pick up. He’s already got the words and sounds down—all he needs are the letters and symbols. 

Whereas Din wanders the walls without a destination in mind, simply enjoying the sights Bo-Katan is a woman on a mission. She beelines it for a section and traces her hand along the wall of books until she finds what she was looking for. She pulls out a large book and blows the dust from the cover. 

She looks up at the two of them and motions them over with a toss of her head. Din pulls his hand back away from the wall of books reluctantly as he walks over to where Bo-Katan now sits with the book open in front of her. 

“This is the _Manda be Miit_ , The Word of Manda and within its pages contains the roots of all our history. The first Way, and how it has changed over time.” Bo-Katan begins, running a gloved finger over the pages as she skims its contents. “With this, we can reunite our people. Our ways are not so different if you know the foundation on which both were built.

“Everything else is of little importance, only this one matters,” Bo-Katan announces, shutting the book closed before pulling it to her chest. Openly displaying its importance to her, and her ownership of it. “We can come back for more another time, once we have. . .had time to let new knowledge settle.” She says the last with a lingering look at Din.

He nods in agreement, and Migs was ready to leave the second he stepped foot on this cursed planet so he voices no objections. 

“We should see if the forge remains functional,” Bo-Katan’s wife speaks up—she has a point but Migs will be damned if he doesn’t hate her a little for making it. He just wants to go back to the ship and see if he can’t find some stashed alcohol _somewhere_ in the cruiser.

They end up checking out the forge. Migs has never seen a Mandalorian forge, or any forge for that matter so he has nothing to compare it to. It’s. . .big? Lots of empty space for working, that’s nice right? 

And then they turn it on.

And okay, yeah now _that_ is an impressive sight. The melting point of beskar is really high so it needs a _very_ hot flame. The flames that spring to life in the center of the forge? Hurt to look at. Bo-Katan’s wife hums appreciatively to herself as she adjusts the controls. She plays with the settings of the flames raising them so high and bright that Migs has to look away before she extinguishes the flames once more.

“It will do,” she says, her tone amused.

They leave after that, thank fuck. 

It’s not until they are lifting off from the surface that Migs feels like he can breathe freely again. He doesn’t care what anyone says—that planet? It’s fucking cursed and he would pay good credits to not have to go back there again. 

They don’t really need him—Din made his point about him having the right to be there and that should be enough right? It’s not like Migs will be of any help whatsoever down there. 

One: He can’t read that shit and unlike Din? He lacks a talent for languages nor doesn’t give a shit about learning.

Two: While he was a prisoner on a scrap planet, he was limited to shitty Imperial salvage. Nothing like beskar so he can’t help there.

And three? He’s an outsider in every way possible and it's just awkward being the odd man out. He knows it, they know it. Without him there sticking out like a sore thumb they would be a lot more comfortable—

Plus the planet fucking hates him. 

It’s a short flight back to the cruiser but Migs seeks out Din just the same. He stands next to him and bumps his shoulder against beskar drawing his attention up from the book in his hands. A childrens’ book though he holds it with the same reverence that Bo-Katan had held the sacred text of their people. 

“You alright?” Migs asks, his tone gentle and his words soft. 

“I will be,” Din answers, and you know what? Sometimes that’s the best you can hope for. “Thank you, for being here for me.” A gloved hand brushes against his own before Din takes his hand in his own and doesn’t let go once for the rest of the flight. 

Neither of them say a word, each lost in their own heads. Migs isn’t sure what Din is thinking about—could be one of a thousand, million things with the day they’ve had. But his own thoughts keep cycling around the hand within his own.

Migs has held Din’s hand a dozen times by this point to comfort him. But this is the first time Din has reached for him. Had held his hand for the sake of holding it and no other reason.

It’s different.

It’s better.

Much like when they had walked hand in hand on the sands of Mandalore they walk hand in hand back on the cruiser. Bo-Katan’s eyes dip to look at their joined hands then quickly away. A faint knowing smile on her face, but she doesn’t say anything—thank fuck. Migs isn’t sure if he could handle it right now.

He hasn’t really come to terms with his feelings—and he’s sure as fuck not going to deal with that in front of an audience. 

“Oh my God! That’s gross!” The universe hates him. It just fucking does. Because why wouldn’t the shock trooper turn the corner and spot them holding hands. Fucking great. “Please tell me this wasn’t an elaborate setup just to have a double date—cause I am not nearly drunk enough for that.”

Migs doesn’t rip his hand out from Din’s—really he doesn’t. He just randomly had to scratch his nose is all. Had nothing to do with covering up the growing red on his face.

“Ewwwww,” Cara mock gags, and Din’s shoulders slump as he lets out an exasperated sigh. Bo-Katan and her wife can be heard laughing down the hall as they leave the two of them to fend for themselves. 

Bastards.

“You know, I thought this whole thing was a sham. Some long con—but would you look at the blush on him!” Cara walks up and hits Migs on the shoulder—he knows it is meant friendly but it fucking stings. “He’s actually gone all soft for you Din.”

“Fuck you,” he spits out, but she just laughs at him. “Yeah, yeah laugh it up. At least I’m not the only single person on board.”

“I like being single, thank you very much,” she informs him with a look before turning her attention on Din. “Now I was promised a nice, long chat with you.” 

Din turns his helmet towards Migs but he just raises his hands in surrender.

“Don’t look at me, you’re the one who was crazy enough to make friends with a fucking _shock trooper_ of all people. You made your bed now you get to lie in it.” Migs says, once again throwing Din under the speeder. “Speaking of beds I have a date with a bottle and a fucking nap. Don’t stay out too late with your friend _babe_.” 

Din’s helmet jerks towards him at the joking use of a pet name much to Cara’s amusement. She tosses her head back as she laughs at her friend’s embarrassment. She punches Migs in the shoulder once more before tossing out a “You’re not so bad, for an Imp” over her shoulder as she physically drags an unwilling Din away.

Try as he might, Migs can’t help but like her style. Plus it doesn’t hurt to know that Din has more than just Migs in his corner. 

The more Migs finds out about Din the more he wants to hold onto him and never let go. He’s had a rough go of it and is long overdue for some serious TLC. Migs isn’t sure he’s capable of the big, horrible L in the middle—but he can do the others. 

And he plans to—but first? 

He needs a fucking drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scroll faster or forever hold your peace. 
> 
> _inhales_
> 
> Alright, so I spent HOURS researching stuff for this. Using canon and Legends(non-movie-verse stuff from books, games, clone wars etc that Disney retconned) as resources. I looked up Mandalorian history, their planet, key figures in said history, wack ass timelines that make no goddamn sense--but you know what got to me?
> 
> THE LANGUAGE
> 
> Time to out myself as a language nerd--but if Mandalore was destroyed there is no reason that anyone ANYONE would recognize their written language. Sure, some history or language nerds would--or diplomats or whatever. But the average joe? Helllllll no! I get people knowing common languages in the galaxy--but Mandalorians are rare--so fucking rare. No one would be studying that in school. If the average joe can't speak Jawa--he sure as shit ain't gonna understand Mando'a.
> 
> Now I will buy into them understanding some spoken stuff if you factor in universal translators or whatever--but written? WRITTEN? Why would they ever need that? When are they ever going to read it what with THEIR HOMEWORLD BEING SLAGGED AND THE REMNANTS OF THEIR DYING RACE SPREAD ACROSS THE GALAXY LYING IN HIDING??!!?!?!  
> Never that's when. Anything Mandalorian is probably in a rich collector's stash--most likely an Imperial's stash cause who doesn't like taking souvenirs from a race they nearly exterminated?
> 
> Now for my choice to make Din illiterate in Mando'a--they actually hardly use it at all in The Mandalorian. There are a lot of theories being tossed around for why not, but I won't get into that. But Din didn't even know he was part of the death watch. He didn't know there were other Mandalorians outside of his tribe. He didn't know that "The Way" isn't the same for all Mandalorians--
> 
> Din is the Jon Snow of Star wars--he knows nothin' We all love him for it--but still, that's going to affect him in other ways.
> 
> So why would he know how to write or read it? They don't even _speak_ it in The Mandalorian. I didn't even realize they hadn't because I had read many fics where they tossed in Mando'a and my brain accepted it as fact. But when I was trying to look up quotes? They didn't exist.  
> Hell, the only time it is used was in written form with Fett--and somehow everyone is just like, Oh Yeah that birth record? Makes sense to me. Seems legit. Like they can read the dead sea scrolls or some shit. Just, no. 
> 
> I read that Mando'a is more of a spoken language than a written one and my mind ran with it hard. I really liked the idea of Din's tribe going full old school and reverting to passing tales down verbally as they do in some cultures. I also read some of the offshoots of the death watch's use of Mando'a in written form sorta died out? They ended up using Basic for simplicity as they were no longer on a planet of _just_ Mandalorians and so they had to adapt. Why waste the time to write something a special way when Basic is easier and used more widely?
> 
> So I should probably stop ranting now. If you disagree, or if you noticed how much of canon I've yeeted out the window and are mad about it? Fair enough. Come chew me out in the comments--but keep in mind I did warn in chapter one AN that this was 50/50 research and me making stuff up. Granted I did totally space case some very important things about their homeworld in the last chapter and since I refuse to go back and retcon anything I've already written--doesn't matter we're Canon-divergent AU territory anyway xD
> 
> So thanks for coming to my ted talk--I'll try to not do this again. <3


	8. I Need a Fucking Drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3 Y'all lovely human beings, I want you to know that. Glad no one got out the pitchforks to roast me for last chapter. 
> 
> And now we return to our regularly scheduled program of posting long chapters that shouldn't exist if I want to meet deadlines I set for myself to get to certain upcoming events in a timely manner. Sorry, not sorry.
> 
> This one is super self indulgent.

Migs does end up finding a few bottles of alcohol, of which he brings two of them to their room. He wastes no time cracking open a bottle of ‘who the fuck cares as long as it gets me drunk’ and takes a swig. 

“Ahh fuck yeah,” He breathes out as a familiar burn grows in his stomach. “God I missed you.” He says lovingly to the bottle before taking another swig. He hasn’t had a drop since the day before he took that fucking prison ship job that started all this shit. He can feel it already starting to hit him, his limbs loosening up and the ever present pit of anger in his gut being washed out with warmth.

He should take it slow, he doesn’t want to just up and pass out immediately—even if guaranteed nightmare free sleep tempts him more than he’d like to admit. He doesn’t have nightmares every night or anything, but he has them often enough to lose sleep over it. Especially back when he was doing time in the prison colony with nothing to distract himself.

Migs stares at the bottle in his hands when he realizes something—he hasn’t had a nightmare once since they sprung him. He wonders if it's because he’s been too busy and exhausted to dream—or if there is another reason.

A reason that has surprisingly gentle hands, and an even softer heart.

And oh yeah, he’s _definitely_ feeling it now if he’s already thinking like this. But unlike when he’s sober, he doesn’t immediately push these kinds of thoughts and feelings down. He lets them sit for a moment, savoring them in a way.

While he’s like this it is easier to push aside his fears and worries and just let himself enjoy the warm feeling inside when he thinks of Din. Of his _husband_. He can just stop for a moment and let it roll over him that he’s married. Really fucking married.

And best of all? He actually likes the fucking guy! 

He, honest to God, likes the big softie. Likes the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he graces Migs with one of his too rare smiles. Likes the way he’s so careful and considerate of Migs—a man who had tried to get him locked up once upon a time.

A man he forgave before Migs had even deserved it.

Without the weight of guilt over his past mistakes with Din, he’s free to appreciate just how lucky he is to have gotten this chance. Who else could say they tried to do a double-cross only to end up married to the guy afterward?

Better yet—who could say that they were already happier in the three days since they got married than they had been in years?

Migs is one lucky son of a bitch and he knows it. 

He picks at the label of the bottle with a rough fingernail for a moment before he sets the bottle aside. A big part of him wants to get absolutely trashed partly in celebration and partly as stress relief after all the crazy shit that has happened to him recently—but it doesn’t feel right for him to get drunk off his ass when Din is out there getting the 3rd degree from the cop. He’s not worried about Din, even he can see that Cara genuinely cares for him and wouldn’t take it too far—but just the same Migs wants to be at least halfway functional for when Din gets back.

Even more than that he wants to be clean—he fucking reeks after walking through the desert. He rummages through the closet and pulls out a change of clothing—and thank fucking god—some new underwear. 

He’s going to burn the pair he’s wearing now. 

Taking the clothes with him he leaves the room and heads for the communal showers. He crosses his fingers in hopes that Gideon would be the kind of officer to have sprung for actual _hot water_ showers. God above, the force in the stones, or whatever other magic shit is willing to listen to his prayer—let Gideon be that kind of officer.

He is.

And the shower he takes? A fucking _religious_ experience after three long days of stewing in his own filth. He spends far longer under the hot stream than he should—but he couldn’t care less if he tried. Water isn’t something to be wasted, it’s meant to be rationed—but the way Migs sees it?

They’re supposed to have a full crew of upwards of a hundred people if they were transporting troops. So his extra 15 minutes of standing under the hot stream? Just drops compared to what the ship was designed for. Besides, there are only 5 of them aboard, it’s not like they’re gonna run out.

Eventually, he turns off the showerhead and dries himself off with the air blowers. When he slides the fresh clothes on he can’t help but let out an indecent sound. God, he really is going to burn the clothes he was wearing, he doesn’t give a fuck. 

The soft fabric—the soft _clean_ fabric—feels amazing against his skin. It feels like sleedaran silk in comparison to the sweat crusted shit he was wearing earlier. He knows for a fact that the Empire uses the cheapest materials possible for their uniforms, but right now? 

He’s in heaven. 

Once he’s finished getting dressed he reluctantly picks up the disgusting clothes he had been wearing and makes a pit stop on the way back to their room. Every ship has an incinerator and it takes him no time at all to find it.

Tossing them in there and watching them burn is more satisfying than it has any right to be.

Good fucking riddance, he thinks as he watches the last of it turn to ash before walking back to their room. He turns to look at the bed, and yeah no. He’s not sleeping in those dirty sheets now that he’s finally clean himself.

The dirty sheets he just moves to the laundry bin, as they didn’t offend him to the point of needing to be burned. Digging through drawers he finds a fresh set and quickly makes the bed with military corners out of long years of habit—not from his days as an Imperial though. This habit? He picked up from living under his father’s roof. 

Cleanliness is next to godliness, his father liked to say. Not that he was religious, it was just one of those things that people say. 

But really it was an excuse to take his sorry life out of his kid’s hide and Migs knew it. But old habits die hard—he learned that lesson too young for it not to stick with him. Migs scrubs a hand over his face—yeah he’s gonna need another drink if he’s thinking about that piece of shit.

So he does just that. Not a big swig, but enough to shut his memories up. That waste of space has no place here, hasn’t had a place in Migs’s life for a long, long time.

And he sure as shit isn’t going to let his daddy issues interfere with his marriage. Well, any more than they already do what with his inability to process complex emotions like what he feels for Din.

But he’s got a bit of liquid courage flowing through his veins so maybe he can manage _something_ tonight. Or maybe he won’t. Not like there is any real rush—they are already married after all.

They’ve got the rest of their lives to figure it out. The thought should scare him, and it does. A little bit. 

Forever. 

What a fucking concept. He’ll die married to Din, he has no doubt of that. They’re both too stubborn to call it quits and while Migs is a fucking asshole—he’s not a dirtbag. He has no reason to cheat—even if they never go past those little forehead kisses Din likes—he’s been fine on his own for years. He doesn’t actually need that shit.

Since he’s got alcohol flowing through him he can admit to himself he’s actually been enjoying all the cuddling going on. More than enjoyed, he’s been loving it—random hookups from bars can’t hold a candle to what he’s getting from Din. 

He can get his rocks off anywhere, but there is nowhere else in the galaxy he feels safer and more cared for than in Din’s arms. It should scare the shit out of him to be vulnerable around someone. Around _anyone_ , but he's not afraid with Din.

He trusts him.

Din wouldn’t hurt him—he’s not even capable of it. The guy is a marshmallow under all that beskar. All he wants is to care for his friends, his family. He thinks of how Din had comforted him only the day before—He wants to care for Migs.

Already is taking care of him. 

Migs clears his throat and scrubs at his face. Scrubs at the moisture around his eyes that shouldn’t exist. He’s not a maudlin drunk, never has been. So why the fuck is he tearing up? He’s not even sad, though his chest does hurt—

But in a good way.

Is he happy? Is that why he’s—he thought that was something people made up. Why would he get teary eyed over something _good_? What kind of backward ass galaxy is he living in?

This makes no fucking sense.

Whatever. He stares at the bottle on the shelf and considers taking another swig, he’s only a little buzzed, and if he’s getting all teary eyed? He clearly hasn’t had enough, but before he can make his decision the door to their room is opening up, and in walks Din. 

There is a tug in his chest at the sight of his husband—but his lips quickly curve into a frown. It is easy to tell just from how Din is holding himself—the slump of his shoulders and his sluggish movements—that he isn’t in the best of moods. Unsurprising considering he just had the 3rd degree from an actual fucking cop but Migs wants to fix it just the same.

He doesn’t wait for Din to come to him, he doesn’t even wait for him to turn back around from shutting the door before Migs is wrapping his arms around Din’s midsection as he holds him from behind. Din tenses for a moment before he’s leaning back against Migs.

Like a puppet with its strings cut Din lets himself be held. His arms come up to cover Migs’s arms around his waist and chest. Migs props his chin upon Din’s shoulder and gives Din a squeeze.

“That good?” Migs asks, his answer takes the form of a modulated sigh through the speakers. “Yeah I thought so, but hey I got great news that’ll cheer you right up.” Din’s helmet twists trying to look at Migs but he lacks the range of motion with all that armor on. Din taps Migs on the back of his hand as he would tap out of a wrestling hold—weird, but it gets the message across.

Migs releases him without hesitation. Din turns around so that they are face to helmet and reaches up to take it off but Migs stops him with his hands.

“Wait,” the beskar helmet tilts in question and confusion. “You’re just going to have to put it right back on so don’t bother.”

Migs takes a step back and pulls out the change of clothing he set aside earlier—the ones with long sleeves that would fit Din. He holds them out for Din to take.

“You want me to change first, but not remove my helmet?” Din asks not getting it.

“Yes and no,” Migs answers unhelpfully with a pause before he continues. “When was the last time you had a shower?” Din’s frame tenses, “No judgment but I know it was way past too fucking long for me so I can only imagine it’s been even longer for you.

“What would you say if I told you this ship was equipped with water showers? Real, _steaming hot_ showers and that you wouldn’t have to ration the water?” Migs almost regrets not letting Din take his helmet off first—he would have loved to see the expression on his face.

But if his body language is anything to go by he’s more than pleased by the surprise.

“I already took one, and let me tell you it was fucking amazing. Better than sex I swear to God. I had a full on religious experience in there.” Din goes perfectly still, he’s even regulating his breathing. “What do you say I stand guard while you go have some fun of your own?”

“Yes,” Migs can’t hold back a laugh at Din’s eagerness—not that he blames him in the slightest. 

Din wastes no time stripping himself of the armor until he’s standing there in just the helmet and undersuit. He makes a strange sight with just the helmet and none of the rest of the bulk of the armor. 

He doesn’t comment though, he can tell Din is uncomfortable enough as is. Probably has nerves about walking the short distance to the showers with so few layers on. 

Huh, Migs hadn’t really thought about it before but all the Mandalorians have been wearing full body clothing. Even without the armor not one inch of skin is visible on Din right now. Even when he had changed into the clothes from the closet he had picked one with long sleeves and a high neck. 

Are Mandos modest? Migs had never given it thought before this moment. He kind of understood the whole helmet thing with Din, but he hadn’t considered it might go further than that. Thinking back on it he can’t remember ever seeing another one of the Mandos’ bare hands or forearms.

He looks down at himself in the short sleeve shirt he had put on. God, he sure hopes he’s not offending Din’s sensibilities being dressed like this. Are bare arms considered slutty in his culture? The thought is a terrible fucking joke, but he can’t help but let out a tiny laugh once he thinks it. Din’s helmet tilts in question but Migs just shakes his head.

“It’s nothing, come on the night ain’t getting any younger, and neither are we,” Migs says clapping his hands together. “Let’s get you cleaned up then we can come back and we’ll get on my second surprise.” 

Migs pretends to not see Din’s questioning look and instead leads the way out of the room. Din follows after a moment of hesitation. They walk side by side in silence—the good kind. It’s comfortable and the short walk passes by quickly. Between one step and the next, they arrive at the doors to the shower. Din pokes his head into the room checking if it’s clear and then nods to himself once that he sees that it is.

“So I’ll just wait here,” Migs announces, taking up a comfortable spot on the wall to lean against. “Take as long as you want—I sure as hell did. They built it for a group a whole hell of a lot larger than just the five of us. ‘Sides,” Migs says with a shrug, “Not like I got anything better to do.”

Din lingers in the doorway, so Migs shoos him off with a wave of his hand. A tiny fond huff of a sound from over the helmet’s speakers and Din is hitting the controls for doors closing them. Migs stares at the closed doors for a moment, then shakes his head and forces himself to look away.

He’s got no business even _thinking_ about what's behind that door. 

Din deserves that much.

So Migs turns his attention to the hallway. It’s empty and fucking boring—but he’s done countless watch stints during his time as an Imperial sharpshooter. The boredom is a familiar feeling.

He’s trained too well to let his mind wander while he’s on watch—and yeah sure what’s going to happen on the cruiser? A whole lot of nothing, that’s what—but he made Din a promise he’d keep watch so that’s what he’s going to fucking do.

Time passes without his notice as his eyes scan the hallways leading to the shower entry point. He can still feel the slight tingle of the alcohol in his system. He’s barely even buzzed anymore, but the slight dullness to his senses helps the time pass by even easier. 

His fingers twitch for a rifle he doesn't have when the door to the showers reopens he was so focused on watching the hallways. He stands up straight from where he had been leaning against the wall and turns to look at Din. 

Covered head to toe save his hands that he’s left bare. He’s seen his hands out of gloves a bunch of times already—it’s not like he sleeps with them on, but something about seeing them in this context. . .

It almost feels lewd to see a bare wrist out on display where anyone could walk by and see it.

Clearly, he’s spent way too much fucking time around Mandos if he’s getting hot and bothered by a bare wrist of all things. All the same? He walks a little faster on the way back to their room. 

It has nothing to do with someone seeing them. Really it doesn’t. He’s just looking out for Din that’s all. 

Right.

So lost in his own thoughts he’s left completely unprepared for when Din takes his helmet off once they are safely back in their room. He had gotten used to seeing Din’s messy, sweaty curls sticking up all over the place from his helmet. This is the first time he's seen them even slightly controlled.

They’re darker, almost black while wet. Some strands stick out but for the most part, they lay across his head brushed back slightly. Din runs his fingers through his hair once he sets down his helmet and it damn near knocks the air out of Migs.

“Fuck, you look good cleaned up,” Din freezes with his hand still in his hair and his cheeks grow dark. If he could just control his mouth for one goddamn day that would be great. “Sorry, fuck I didn’t—well I did mean it cause shit you look _good_ but I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.

“And it’s not like I don’t think you look good normally—cause you do. And I should fucking shut up. Sorry. I swear I can’t control half the shit that comes out of my mouth.” Din’s eyes are wide as saucers, but he doesn’t look upset—just embarrassed. That makes two of them as Migs scrubs a hand over his own blushing face.

“Uh, thanks,” Din says awkwardly after the silence drags between them. “Um, you too.” He stops, his eyes darting around the room to settle somewhere above Migs’s shoulder. “I—I like how you look when it is just us.” His eyes flick back to look at Migs once more, his eyes are filled with a hundred different things Migs is incapable of processing at the moment—if ever.

Migs doesn’t react externally, but internally? His mind is echoing those words on repeat. A beat of silence passes between them before Din shuffles his weight between his feet. Right, he should say something to that. Whatever the hell that was—he’s going to need to unpack all the possible meanings behind those words another time. Or maybe never.

“Right,” Migs licks his lips and blinks a few times to refocus. “I uh, I have another surprise for you.” He deftly changes the subject and breaks the heavy eye contact in one move. He walks over to the shelf and pulls out the bottle he had opened earlier and turns back to wiggle it in front of Din.

“I don’t know about you, but I sure as fuck could use a drink after the last few days we had.” 

“I don’t drink.”

“Why the hell not?” Migs says making a face before his brain catches up with his mouth. “Oh shit, it’s not like another one of those creed things, is it? Shit sorry I shouldn’t ha—”

“No,” Din stops him, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. I just, never have. We did not keep any within the Covert, and it’s not like I could go to a bar with the helmet.” Din says it with a little shrug of his shoulders. 

“Aww, I’m sure they would have gotten you a sippy cup with a straw if you asked,” Migs jokes. Well, it’s not much of a joke because he’s one hundred percent certain people would pay to see a Mando drinking from one of those neon curly straws in a bar—he knows he fucking would have. 

“You’re probably right,” Din concedes with a good-natured smile. “But I still would not have. It would be too risky to not have my full senses about me.” 

“Well, how about now?” Migs asks. “Can’t get much safer than on a cruiser where no one would ever think to look with only four other people even in the system. Come on, live a little. I promise you’ll like it.” He jiggles the bottle again trying to entice Din before he shrugs and takes a drink himself.

“You’re not the kind of guy to let your husband drink alone are you?” he teases, holding the bottle against the side of his cheek as he looks at Din. “I’m not asking you to get drunk, I’m not going to either. Just have a drink or two. Relax. You sure as fuck deserve it.”

Din’s eyes flick between the bottle and Migs as his face scrunches up in indecision. 

“Drink with me—Please?” Migs tries, it’s a dirty move and he knows it. He can see it in Din’s eyes when they go all soft that he’s not going to turn him down. 

“Fine,” he sounds put out, but he reaches for the bottle all the same. Their fingers brush as Migs hands him the bottle. The warmth of his touch lingers on Migs’s skin even after he takes the bottle away. He watches Din sniff the bottle and make a face. He gives Migs another sour look but Migs just raises his eyebrows at him in challenge.

Din lets out a sigh then tilts the bottle up to take a drink. A big drink, like he's trying to down the whole bottle, Migs realizes a moment too late. He reaches out and tips the bottle back over as fast as he can. 

“Fuck Din, I said I wasn’t trying to get you drunk,” Migs holds the bottle for him as Din doubles over coughing, his face bright red. “I get it—you’re a tough Mando and all, but no need to go _that_ hard for your first time. This is hard liquor buddy, not a fucking beer.”

Migs claps him on the back with force, knowing from personal experience that the shock of sensation somewhere else will make the burn less pronounced. Din continues to cough and splutter as he hangs onto Migs’s forearm for support. Migs rubs his back soothingly as the coughing dies down.

“Dank farrik, that burns,” Din’s use of profanity startles a laugh out of Migs. He didn’t know Din had it in him, he just keeps getting better and better. 

“Alright, I think it is safe to say that you won’t be needing anymore so I’ll just set this down,” Migs says as he stretches and leans to set the bottle out of the way without letting go of Din. “Now how about we get ourselves comfortable and you prone before it hits you in full force. Sound alright?”

“You’re the expert,” Din says it like an accusation, but he’s not wrong. “My life is in your hands.”

And well fuck. 

He knows it’s meant jokingly in the moment—and yet it rings true. Has rung true ever since Morak. Ever since he stuck his neck out for Din. He just couldn’t let the guy burn when all he wanted was to save his kid—

It was then when he first started to like the guy and now fucking look at him all married and shit. Getting choked up over some fucking words? 

“You’re right about that,” Migs says, the only warning before he’s tripping Din’s legs out from under him and tipping him over to fall on the bed. Din’s hold on his forearms drags Migs down with him—but he was aiming for that anyway.

Din lets out a surprised ‘oof’ of air as Migs lands on top of him. Migs catches most of his weight on his elbows but he’s had a bit to drink himself so he lands more on Din than he intended to. They’re face to face and chest to chest.

Migs looks down at Din as Din looks up at him. They’re so close their breaths mingle between them. Time seems to slow down as they stare into each other’s eyes—he knows that is some romantic bullshit but he’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel like it slows down just the same. 

Din’s eyes are always so expressive and open, but this close up? It’s downright intimate. Migs can’t look away, doesn’t even want to though he knows he should get off of Din. He doesn’t want him to get the wrong idea, this wasn't his goal. Not that it isn’t a happy accident, but this isn’t some game he’s playing some game to get anything out of Din. He genuinely just wants him to make him feel good.

Brown eyes flicker down to look at Migs’s lips and linger. Din’s lips part as he takes a breath and—Yeah, okay. Wow. Nope, that’s too much.

Migs pushes himself up and off of Din rolling onto his side. He is so not playing that game. No way in hell is he putting himself in a position to either turn down Din or take advantage of him. Like hell is he going to let _anything_ happen while Din is like this.

Din blinks up at him, more than a little out of it—and Migs knows he made the right call. He hadn’t meant that look, not really. He’s not even sure that would be something Din would like normally, not every race is into kissing. He might be human by blood, but he’s all Mandalorian where it counts. 

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Nothing happened, and nothing is going to happen. Panicking Migs does the first thing that comes to mind to break the tension. He reaches out and gently boops Din on the nose with a finger. Din scrunches his face up in confusion and moves his head away from the touch. 

Din turns an annoyed look on him, clearly not a fan of being booped. Migs just gives him a shit eating grin—he knows damn well how childish that was but he's not the least bit sorry. It broke the mood and that’s all he cares about. 

“How do you feel?” he asks, moving his hand to brush an out of place hair behind Din’s ear. Din’s eyes close and the annoyed expression is replaced with a content one. Migs runs his finger along the shell of Din’s ear enjoying the look of peace that overcomes Din's features. 

Eyes still closed Din hums to himself moving his hands to rest over his sternum. He taps his fingers against his chest as he thinks it over. 

“I feel warm like there is a fire inside me,” Din says, his eyes opening back up to look at the ceiling. He tilts his head to the side and back again. “My head feels. . .fuzzy. Out of focus—like I took a hit to the head but no pain.”

Din rolls over onto his side so that he’s facing Migs. 

“It feels,” Din trails off as he runs his fingers across the sheets between them. “It feels nice.” His fingers find Migs’s hand where it lays between them and with only the slightest tremor betraying his nerves he runs his fingers along the back of Migs’s hand just as gently as he had the sheet. 

Migs scarcely dares to breathe lest it distracts him from the sensation of Din’s careful touch. He’s always so careful, but here and now? It’s an entirely different level. Din turns all of his attention and focuses on Migs, his eyes tracing the movements of his fingers along bare skin.

His touch is feather-light, almost not there. Reverent. As if Migs is something he deems worthy of the utmost of care. Goosebumps follow his touch and the hairs on the back of Migs’s neck rise up. 

His breathing is shallow once he finally does take a breath, Din’s eyes flick up to meet his own at the sound. It’s intense having Din look at him so reverently.

Migs swallows, his throat suddenly dry.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the one awing Din, not the other way around. Pull yourself together man, this ain’t about you. It’s about him. 

Reluctantly, _very_ reluctantly Migs moves his hand out from under Din’s ministrations. Though, he does brush his fingers along Din’s before pulling all the way back so there is no mistaking his movement as dislike.

“How about a massage? I’m no expert but I know a thing or two about getting knots out.” Migs says, Din blinks at him and his eyes go a little wide as he goes tense. “Fully clothed of course.” Din relaxes back against the pillow.

Migs pushes himself up and sits with his legs crossed beside Din. He reaches out and takes Din’s hand and cups it between both of his own. He stares into the other man’s eyes.

“Look—” Migs starts, “I’m not gonna—I will never ask you to do something like that. Something you aren’t comfortable with. So any time I say something? Just assume I mean it fully clothed. I will never ask for more than being able to see your face when we’re alone alright? And even then? That's negotiable.

“This—this whole thing with us? I already feel like the luckiest son of a bitch in the sector. I ain’t greedy enough to ask for more than what you’re already giving me okay?” Migs squeezes Din’s hand within his own willing Din to believe him. “I’m good, more than good with just this—” 

Migs flounders for a second but pushes through it.

“But If—if you ever did want more, more _anything_? Just say so, I’m uh, more than okay with most anything. But it’s on you to make that call. I'll never ask—it’s entirely your decision and I’ll respect it no matter what.”

Din is silent for a time before he moves to sit up, swaying a little on the way. Migs just pushes him back down on the bed.

“Sorry, right. You’re fucking drunk. I have the worst timing to suddenly grow a pair, don't I?” Migs berates himself. “I’m just putting that out there you don’t have to say anything—in fact, it’s better if you don’t right now. Just for future reference?

“It’s good, it’s all good.” Din nods and doesn’t say anything much to Migs’s relief. “Right so anyway before I made the decision to shove my entire fucking foot down my throat where were we?

“Right!” Migs snaps his fingers. “Massage, yay or nay?” Din nods. “Great, how about you roll over and get comfortable?”

Din is sluggish as he complies, slowed by the alcohol in his system. He pushes the pillow away as he lays down on his stomach his head turned to the right so that he can see Migs. Migs stretches his hands out and prepares to move when he realizes he’s going to have to straddle Din’s hips to do it from this position. 

“You comfortable with me sitting on you to do this or we can try it another way if it’s too much.” Din sits up a little on his elbows. He gives Migs a long look, chewing on the side of his cheek slightly before he nods and puts his head back down.

Okay. 

They’re doing this then. Now, look at who is the nervous one. It’s just a massage, nothing to get worked up over. He’s had and given plenty without it leading into something else—this should be no different. 

And yet when he gets on his hands and knees and moves over Din he can’t help the strange intensity that rolls over him. With as much care as he can, he sits back on the top of Din’s—where his waist and hips meet. 

His ass. 

It’s not a big fucking deal, he doesn’t know why he’s being such an idiot about it. He keeps the majority of his weight on his knees as he leans over and places his hands against Din’s shoulders. 

At first, he slides his hands all across Din’s back as he maps out muscle groups with his hands. It would be a lot easier if he could see, but this isn’t so bad. He doesn’t even have to apply much pressure to identify the problem areas—because his whole damn back is a fucking problem.

“You feel like you’re wearing beskar under this,” Migs says as he starts working on Din’s shoulders first. He has to apply more pressure than he’d like working the first knot out, and if Din weren’t drunk he’d probably be complaining about the roughness—or maybe not. 

He is a big tough Mandalorian after all. 

Either way, Migs feels a little bad about it but since he doubts Din has _ever_ had a massage there isn’t much for it. He works his thumbs in deeper and feels the knot start to finally give. 

Din makes a noise—and yeah okay, there is no way he’s not thinking about this later—as Migs works the last of it out. He works the spot for a little bit longer soothing the now loosened muscles before he moves onto the next spot. 

And the next after that. As he works Din turns to putty under his hands, making sinful sounds all the while. It’s enough to make Migs work up a sweat—both from exertion and trying his level best to ignore those sounds.

He’s not entirely successful but he’s only human. He's not a fucking saint for crying out loud. 

Once he’s turned Din into a liquid he sits up and stretches his back out with a grunt. Ain’t as young as he used to be, but seeing Din lying there with not an ounce of tension in him? More than worth it. He shifts up and off of Din to lay on his side next to Din.

Din blinks open an eye from where he lays with half his face smooshed into the bedsheets. He looks like he’s in heaven, and two seconds away from falling asleep.

He looks fucking adorable.

Migs pulls a pillow down under his head and gets as comfortable as he can before he reaches out with a hand and runs his fingers through Din’s curls. Din’s eyes close as he smiles, a muffled, soft happy sound coming from where his face is pressed against the bed.

Migs really likes the sound of that so he just keeps running his fingers through Din’s hair, tracing his ears, and along the tiny sliver of exposed skin on his neck. 

Migs drifts, lost in thought as he lets his hand roam across Din’s bare skin, and through the now silky soft hair. He’s missed sharing this simple intimacy with someone. He hasn’t had this since Mica all those years ago. 

It’s strange, this is the first he’s thought of her and not immediately clamped up and shut down. Maybe the wound is finally starting to heal, maybe it's the alcohol—he looks down at the man lying next to him.

Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

His stomach clenches at the thought—at the possibility of having Din, actually having him. What they are doing now? This casual trust and intimacy between them? It’s already more than Migs thought he would ever have again.

After the shitshow disaster that was Burnin Konn, he fully expected his angry ass to die early and alone. For a while, he passively sought it out—taking dangerous jobs and not caring enough about the risks. 

He should have died on that planet, so many others who were better than him did—why should he get to live when they died? It was a dark two or three years where he thought that but eventually, he came to accept that life wasn’t fair and that was that. It was just shit ass luck that he was delivering a message to headquarters when the order came down to start Operation Cinder.

Nothing more than that. 

He took less stupid risks once he came to accept that, but his anger never faded. Probably never will if he’s being honest with himself. What was taken from him that day? You don’t just forget, you don’t just get over it. 

You get even. 

Maybe that has a little something to do with why he was able to think about how it felt sliding his fingers through her hair without having to break something. Nothing would ever be able to bring her back, but the piece of shit who killed her? He got served justice in the form of a blaster shot to the chest. 

If nothing more no one else will have to go through what he went through. He might not be a good guy—but that alone has gotta help with rebalancing his scale. 

A soft snore pulls him from his thoughts. His eyes refocusing on the person with him now, rather than on the one he had lost. He leans over and presses his forehead against Din’s for a moment before moving up to press his lips into the same spot.

He’s not going to lose this one—nothing is going to take Din away from him.

He won't let it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since quite a few of you liked the thought process I detailed in my last author's note have another for this:
> 
> I thought it was hot so I wrote it. Also, I had never written a drunk or even buzzed character before so I wanted to try it. That part could have been better, but I'm not a big drinker so I'm using that as an excuse.
> 
> BOOOM there's the chapter. xD
> 
> So anyway I might have a delay for the next chapters as I do have a couple of other projects I need to finish by a certain time so hopefully, this satisfies the mortal need for cuddling soft husbands until I get back. :D (I won't be gone long, I love these two far too much!) <3 <3 <3


	9. You know what?  Maybe you aren't so bad after all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still busy with side projects but was getting antsy about not posting for such a long time. My head is all over the place, so if there are any glaring issues please let me know. I've read over this a dozen times but stuff always seems to slip past me until I've hit post.

Migs wakes up and his first thought is how fucking awful his mouth tastes. Tastes like a womp rat died in his mouth. His second thought is wondering why in the fuck he didn’t brush his teeth before going to sleep. He blinks his eyes open, the lights, still in sleep mode are dim but they seem brighter than they should be.

Oh right, the drinking.

Scrubbing a hand over his face Migs tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He’s not hungover, but he’s definitely feeling the drinks he had the day before. Nothing greasy food, a shower, and a lot of water can’t fix. He turns his head to the side to see Din laying in almost the exact position he was in before Migs had fallen asleep.

His now dry hair is a poofy mess around his head, his mouth hangs open and there is a wet spot on the sheets from where he’s been drooling. 

The sight shouldn’t make his stomach flutter—Din looks ridiculous. He’s not the cool Mando, nor is he the shy but good looking man under the armor. He’s just—

Din.

His husband. Bedhead, drool stains, and all. This moment of vulnerability, this image of him spread out on _their_ bed dead to the world? It belongs to Migs and only him. No one else will ever know Din as Migs does. Maybe it makes him a little fucked up and a whole lot selfish but you know what?

He’s fucking glad for it. 

This Din? Is all his. He might be the fucking Mand’alor or some famous bounty hunter to the rest of the galaxy but to Migs? He’s his softly snoring husband who has just gotten drunk for the first time in his life at 37. He’s the reason Migs is a free man, the reason he wants to be a better man. But most of all?

He’s the reason Migs smiles when he wakes up. When he remembers there is someone lying next to him. Someone special.

Someone who is about to discover the joys of a hangover.

Din grumbles as he shifts on the bed, his hands immediately going to his head. His face is twisted in disgust and Migs can’t help but let out a laugh. The sound makes Din grumble more as he covers his ears—which just makes Migs laugh harder. 

Now that earns him a glare. It doesn’t last long before Din is burying his face back into the sheets. He makes another sound of disgust as he finds his own wet spot and moves away. 

At this point, the bed is shaking from Migs attempting and failing at holding his laughter back. Din reaches above his head and pulls his unused pillow down over his head and presses tight trying to block out the sounds of Migs’s laughter. 

“Sorry,” Migs says once he’s gotten ahold of himself. Din ignores him, his hands still pressing the pillow tight against the back of his head. Migs reaches out lightly touching the back of Din’s hand and all at once, the grip he has on the pillow grows slack.

Migs isn’t above using his husband’s weakness for a gentle touch against him. Not when it’s for his own good anyway. Migs leans over and presses a barely there kiss where his fingers just were. 

“Hey,” he whispers. “I’ll get you something for your head, just stay here okay?” Din makes a sound, still grumpy but not as bad. Migs holds back a laugh by pressing his lips into Din’s skin once more before he’s climbing out of bed. 

He stretches and lets out a yawn scratching at his side. He slips on some socks, his boots and then finally brushes his goddamn teeth. Once he has that taken care of he steps back into the bedroom proper to see that Din has burrowed even deeper under the pillow so that Migs can’t see him at all. He’s just a lumpy, grumpy bump on the bed. 

It makes for a cute picture in his head. He can just see it as a painting complete with captions. Din Djarin, the first of his name, ruler of Mandalore: Hung the Fuck Over. Migs makes himself leave before he starts laughing again. 

He makes his way towards the commissary, having slept in he’s missed the early rising Mandos but not the cop. Cara is sitting at the table slowly picking at her food. They make eye contact and she looks about as good as he feels. He spots the bottle of anti-intoxicants sitting beside her tray. He raises an eyebrow.

“So you found the booze too eh?” He asks to make conversation, she just looks at him. “Right, dumb question.” He turns around and digs through the selection of meals til he finds the two greasiest ones they have. Real home cooked food would be better, but these will do. He pauses and adds a packet of plain crackers just in case Din’s stomach is worse off than Migs expects. He pockets a few bottles of water then turns back around to face the cop.

“Do you mind?” She waves her hand and gets back to picking at her food. “Thanks,” he says taking a pill dry and then pocketing the bottle. 

“Planning to make a habit of it?” She asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Nah, just figure Din might want to look at the bottle and not just have me hand him a random ass pill.” Her other eyebrow raises up in surprise.

“You got Din drunk,” both a question and an accusation. He shrugs with a little nod. He sorta did. “And now you’re bringing him breakfast in bed.”

“Yeah and?” He asks, a little annoyed by her disbelieving tone. “Look, I didn’t mean to get him drunk but it happened alright? So I’m going to do what any good _husband_ would and go take care of his hungover, grumpy ass.” 

Her face splits into a wide smile. She’s actually really pretty when she does that—but Migs knows better than to say anything like that. She’d snap him in half—and not in a fun way.

“If you want to give me the shovel talk or whatever,” he waves his free hand around. “That’s fine but I told him I’d be right back so can we do it later? Maybe after he’s asleep and won’t hear my screams?” 

Cara slaps her knee and lets out a laugh.

“You know what?” She asks him.

“No, what?” He says more than a little annoyed at this point. He just wants to get back to Din and not have to deal with overprotective shock trooper friends first fucking thing in the morning.

“You’re not so bad,” Migs is taken aback by that one. “Maybe Din isn’t completely out of his mind to have picked you.” She gives him an appreciative once over lingering on his ass. “You do have some _assets_.”

“Excuse you, I am a surprisingly happy married man thank you very much,” he says meaning every word. “Besides, I’m married to the goddamn Mand’alor, anything less would be a step down.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” she agrees, raising her bottle of water in a toast. “Alright get out of here lover boy. I’ll threaten your balls later.”

“Looking forward to it,” he throws out over his shoulder as he leaves the area. He figured she’d corner him at some point or another for something like this. He’s never had the shovel talk before—mostly because he’s not the kind of guy you take to meet the parents. He’s gotten his share of warning looks from dates’ friends way back when he was younger before he was broken, but it never went further than that.

He did tell Din he wanted to experience new things. Dangerous and exciting—that hits the nail on the head in describing Cara. Being grilled by a shock trooper to make sure he treats his own husband right? Definitely not on the list of things he thought would ever happen. 

Whatever, he’s no coward, he can handle it. Though, he does hope he was joking about the screaming thing. He’s kind of attached to all his parts. 

He knocks on the door with his boot to warn Din of his return. He doesn’t think Din would be up and about, but he’d rather not risk it. Silence for a few seconds then a muffled thud against the door. Migs opens the door and finds a pillow on the floor, well that explains the sound.

Din, still completely hidden under the covers, makes no acknowledgment of his return. 

Migs stops to look at the scene before him for a moment. It’s weird how differently each morning has gone for them so far in just a few short days. This one is strangely normal. Might even be a bit domestic, not something he ever thought he’d have let alone _want_.

Which makes it all the weirder that this morning? It’s his favorite so far. 

The last week has been one long fucking mind trip. He’s bounced from one impossible thing to the next. His whole fucking world order has been turned upside down again and again. To see Din huddling in the blankets pretending to ignore him because he’s hungover and mad about it?

The most normal thing that’s happened since his droid overlord announced someone was there to see him. 

Seeing Din doing something so normal, even considering the week he’s had? It gives Migs hope. That maybe it will be alright. That maybe they can do this thing and be happy. They’ll never be normal, but maybe they can find their own version of normal.

Together.

“Rise and shine Princess,” Migs sing-songs annoyingly. “I got the goods that will have you feeling huma—Mandalorian again.” Migs corrects himself. He sets his tray and bottle down and waits for Din to emerge from the blankets.

Muffled grumbling can be heard coming from the blanket pile. Doesn’t sound like words to Migs, but Din could be cussing him out in Mando’a for all he knows. Eventually, the pile of blankets parts and brown curls peek out at Migs. Din’s eyes are squeezed mostly shut even with the lights dimmed low, poor guy.

Guess that will teach him to chug down a good portion of a bottle for his first time.

“These things here?” Migs says pulling out and shaking the bottle in front of Din’s face. Din closes his eyes and flinches his head away from the sound of the pills hitting the insides of the bottle. Oops. “They’ll fix you right up with some water and a bit of food. Think you can sit up for me? At least long enough to take these and eat a couple of bites? I promise you can go back to bed after if you want.”

Din takes a moment to think it over, like all his trust for Migs went out the window after he had gotten him drunk. He’s not offended—it’s fucking hilarious. He’s reduced a big bad Mando to a grumpy, distrustful teenager nursing his first hangover. 

“The sooner you take these the sooner you can get back to normal,” Migs tells him. He pops a pill into his hand and holds it in front of Din’s face trying to entice him. Jokingly he says, “Open wide.”

And Din does. Migs blinks at him in surprise. He was kidding, but uh, okay. Okay then. Yeah, no he can hand feed Din a pill no problem. 

Okay, it’s a tiny bit of a problem.

Migs tries to keep it cool, really he does. All he has to do is drop the pill in Din’s mouth then give him the bottle of water. So why is it that he stops breathing, his mouth going dry as he looks down at Din’s parted lips? His eyes still pressed closed, blindly trusting Migs and his intentions?

Why does that make him want to do something he shouldn’t so much? Fuck he looks good, always does—but even more so when he’s trusting in Migs. Makes it all the worse that _that_ is when Migs seems to want him the most—the times when he really shouldn’t. 

He fights down the urge to brush his fingers along Din’s parted lips as he carefully places the pill in Din’s mouth. He pulls his hand back, not daring to linger. Pulling out a bottle of water Migs presses it lightly against the blankets covering Din’s chest. 

Giving him water would be a bit much this early with his inhibitions lowered and his wandering thoughts. 

Din takes the water bottle and after a moment of struggling works open the lid and washes down the pill. He then proceeds to drink the entire bottle in a go sucking in a breath of air once it’s empty. His face twists into a grimace, must be the womp rat. 

“Wanna at least rinse your mouth now before you try to eat?” Migs asks, Din’s face screwing up further in disgust. “I know food sounds gross right now, but trust me, after a few bites you’ll be gorging yourself.”

Din clearly does not believe him judging by the squinty, doubtful look but he doesn’t argue. He does grumble and sigh a lot as he gets out of bed though. His clothes are hopelessly rumbled and half walks half drags his bare feet to the fresher to brush his teeth—all with his eye barely open.

Adorable. 

Migs turns away from watching Din struggle to find his toothbrush in the low light and instead works on getting their meals ready. He opens his tray first and sets it aside then does the same for Din’s setting it aside as well. Turning back to the bed and the mess Din has made of it he remakes it. 

He knows Din will just mess it up again as soon as he’s done eating and goes back to sleep but he can’t help himself. Never could stand clutter or messes. Besides, it’ll be easier to sit up and eat this way, he tells himself.

Once that is done he sits back down on the corner of the bed and starts on his food. It isn’t long before Din is dragging himself back to the bed, making a face at Migs’s tray of food on the way. He’s looking a little green around the edges, not surprising considering it’s his first hangover but Migs feels bad about it anyway.

“Hey,” he starts his voice low. “I’m sorry that you’re feeling like shit right now, but really I promise you’ll feel better once you get some food in you. Just a couple bites alright?” Din lets out a breath but reaches for his food all the same. 

“Thank you,” Migs says, going back to eating his own food. He watches Din poke at his food with a grossed out look, been there. Eventually, with another one of his sighs, he picks up a piece of food with his fork and puts it in his mouth. 

The grossed out look doesn’t fade from his face, but like a champ, he downs it anyway. He turns a little more green as it goes down though, not good. Migs quickly sets down his tray of food and moves over to Din taking his tray too. 

“Come here,” he says, as he moves himself in behind Din. “Close your eyes and just breathe. In through your mouth and out through your nose. With me.” 

Wrapping his arms around Din’s midsection he pulls Din back against him rubbing soothing circles against his stomach. It’s been a long damn time since he’s felt like he was going to barf but he could swear he spent half his childhood with an upset stomach.

In hindsight, it was probably from the stress of living under his father’s roof rather than him being sickly and weak like his father liked to say. Total fucking asshole.

At least his mom was nice. Used to do this for him when it got really bad. She would hold him like this and rub circles into his stomach soothing the ache inside. It was never a 100% cure all, but it sure as shit helped. 

He mimics the motions she used on him as he tries to keep Din from losing his breakfast. He hums to himself quietly as he gently massages Din’s stomach as a distraction. He sure as shit isn’t going to sing to Din as his mother had sung to him—Din would _definitely_ be puking his guts up then—but little by little it seems to work.

“Was it the smell or the texture?” Migs asks, voice soft, mindful of how close he is to Din’s ear from where he rests his head on Din’s shoulder. 

“Both,” he answers. His voice doesn’t have the shake of someone on the verge of puking so that’s nice.

“How about a cracker then?” Migs suggests. “Just a bite to start with. It’s like eating paper, no taste at all. Should be perfect.”

“Alright,” Din agrees after a long pause, his reluctance coming through loud and clear. 

Migs, careful to not shift Din too much, reaches over to where he sat the crackers down. He opens it up and takes one out before replacing the package. He re-situates himself behind Din again and holds the cracker out for him to take. Din hesitates to take it—fair enough considering.

Migs presses against Din’s stomach with his free hand knowing the pressure will help with nausea and pain. It also works pretty well as a distraction to help keep someone’s mind off of something.

Din finally takes the cracker from his hands and brings it to his mouth. The bite he takes? Would outshine a toddler throwing a temper tantrum because he was forced to eat. He barely takes off the corner and he very slowly chews it almost as if he’s afraid to swallow it, but eventually he does.

He pauses between bites and Migs distracts him with his touch as best he can while he waits for it to settle in his stomach. He doesn’t turn green this time, thank fuck. 

The next bite he takes is a little bigger and he spends less time mulling it over in his mouth before swallowing. He eats the rest of it with his next bite and a little bit of color returns to his face.

“Better?” Din nods and Migs can feel Din’s stomach gurgling under his hands. “Another?” Another tiny nod. 

Slowly they work their way through the packet of crackers Migs taking one here and there for himself until Din shakes his head. Migs shrugs and eats that last cracker himself before grabbing another bottle of water and handing it to Din.

Reluctantly, he moves out from behind Din so he can drink without knocking their heads together. This time Din only drinks half of it before replacing the cap and setting it down on his own. 

He looks a lot better already, and the unhappy scowl that has been Din’s baseline expression this morning fades into something softer. He’s not happy, nor feeling good but he’s doing better. Migs brushes the crumbs off the bed as best he can before he’s pushing Din over on his back.

“Sleep,” he commands. “You’ll feel as good as new after a quick nap.” He moves to stand up but Din’s hand catches his wrist. 

“Thanks,” he says giving Migs’s wrist a light squeeze. “You are very kind to me.”

“Yeah well, this is sort of my fault,” Migs sidesteps the compliment. “Be a real dick move to let you just suffer, besides you’d probably never have a real drink with me again if I did.”

“Probably not,” Din admits. “Even still, thank you.” 

Migs doesn’t reply to that, not really the best with taking heartfelt compliments he doesn’t think he deserves. He’s just doing what anyone else would do in his position. 

Or at least what he thinks a married couple should do for each other anyway. He’s never been married before and his one example? His parents? Not exactly role models on what is healthy and normal. But he’s seen some holos, had a few friends whose parents seemed happy and this seems like the kind of thing they’d do for each other.

Besides, even if it wasn’t normal to do this kind of thing? Fuck them, this is the kind of husband he wants to be. Had always wanted to be.

Growing up seeing how his father had treated his mother? How he had treated Migs? He vowed to never be like that piece of shit. Sure, he had inherited his father’s nasty temper but he would never take it out on someone he cared about. 

He knows from personal experience it doesn’t feel great to see shit thrown around the house—even if it never comes close to hitting you. So anytime he feels himself losing control like that? He would walk away.

. . .and go lose his shit somewhere else. It’s not great, but it sure as fuck beats the alternative. 

So yeah, he might not be the best person around—far fucking from it—but at least he’s got his dad beat in every respect. That’s something. Also, he can say one thing his father never could have.

His husband? Actually likes him. Wants him around and even seems to care about him. 

His mother had put up with his father because she had to. There was no love there, probably never was. Migs would bet they stuck together just because he had come along as an accident. His dad probably stuck around out of some misplaced sense of duty but if you asked Migs? They would have been better off without him even if they had to struggle to eat. 

At least his mom might have had a chance to find someone nice like she deserves. Maybe Migs wouldn’t have come out such an asshole either—well, honestly? He doubts it, being a dick is a part of who he is.

Okay, so maybe he’d be less messed up, but still an asshole.

Migs blinks as he gets out of his own head turning his attention once more on Din. A Din who is already sound asleep curled around a pillow. Migs brushes some of Din’s hair away from his face but Din doesn’t even stir.

Good, he needs the rest.

Taking care to not jostle Din, Migs extracts himself from the bed. He grabs a fresh change of clothing and heads off to the showers. If he’s gonna get grilled by Cara he’s at least going to do it clean.

  
  


~One Revitaliving Shower Later~

  
  


She starts it off with a staring contest, trying to get under his skin. He’s willing to admit that it works, but he would go on to say that he lasted longer than most men would when facing down a shock trooper of her caliber. That was very true, but the fact that he cracks in the first minute was just as true.

She is one scary ass woman.

Wasting no time she gets right into the meat of it grilling him on what happened on Morak.

“That’s not my story to tell sorry,” he repeats for not the first time. She isn’t happy with his answer, and to be fair? He wouldn’t be either if he had any friends worth giving a shit about so he decides to give her something more.

“I can’t say what happened—if he wanted you to know? He would have told you himself,” her eyes narrow at that but he forestalls her with a raised finger. “I can’t give you details, but I will say this; I saw a side of him I didn’t know existed before. 

“What he was willing to do? Willing to give up for just the _hope_ of getting his kid back? It made me see him in another light. Made me realize some things about him, and about myself—things I still haven’t really figured out yet so I ain’t getting into that without a fuck ton of booze so that’ll have to remain a mystery,” he let out a sigh. “Satisfied?”

“It’s always the kid—that’s how he gets to you,” she says with a sigh. “You aren’t the first to fall for his whole ‘dad of the galaxy’ deal he’s got going on—though I wouldn’t have thought that out all of them he’d pick you.”

Migs looks up at her in surprise. He didn’t know anyone else had fallen for Din—though he shouldn’t be surprised. He’s a catch, even someone like Migs could see that after so short a time. 

A smile breaks out on his face, good for him. He’s glad Din has gotten at least _some_ attention before Migs had come along. It would be a crying shame if Migs was the first person in all the whole damn galaxy to notice him.

“Oh yeah? He’s been a real heart breaker?” Migs asks and Cara gives him a genuine smile.

“You bet, seems like every town he stops at he leaves at least one person with hearts in their eyes behind,” she stops and gives him a considering look. As if she isn’t sure on whether or not to tell him something. “Actually tried to convince him to settle down the first time I met him.”

Migs eyebrows raise up on his head. That isn’t something he expected to hear from the gruff alliance cop. 

“There was this real sweet thing on this backwater planet—boy let me tell you she had it _bad_ for him,” she smiles as she starts her story. Migs listens greedily, surprising himself with how much he wants to hear about something from Din’s past—even something like him almost settling down with someone else. “She was beautiful and soft-spoken but underneath? Made of steel. Still not sure what her story was, but she was good with a blaster and no stranger to combat. Really seemed like they’d be perfect for each other.

“She was a teacher, loved kids—fell head over hills for his kid,” an expression of sadness crosses her face. “He could have been happy there, maybe had a nice peaceful life.”

“What happened?” Migs asks on the edge of his seat. She gives him a look and touches her cheek, just below her tattoo.

“What always happens, Imps had to go and ruin everything,” it’s not an accusation directed at him, at least not anymore. She saw what he did to that base on Morak—he can’t tell her his reasons but she seems to understand it must have been something bad to go so far as to kill so many people he once would have called allies. 

“That and his creed,” she says, taking a drink of something that he hopes to God isn’t alcoholic. “She wanted him to give it up, give it all up and stay with her. Become a peaceful farmer and raise a gaggle of kids together. But that wasn’t something he could do. I don’t get what it all means to him but he chose this life over her. Over what he could have had with her. 

“I was real mad at him for a while after that, thought that he was stupid to give up a good thing. But you know what?” She asks leaning forward. “I see him walking around hand in hand with you—with the helmet on and I see him happy in a way he never is. I don’t need to see his face to be able to tell.

“You and him? It’s a good thing. I don’t know how it manages to work with him being so kind and you being such a prick—” He doesn't deny it, it’s true. He just shrugs not saying anything one way or another. “But you respect him. Respect his choice and I’m willing to bet you aren’t the type to understand his creed any more than I am.

“But you respect it where she wanted it out of the way. Wanted him to change for her, rather than accept him as he was,” she gives him a nod of approval. “So maybe I was wrong to tell him to settle—seems to me he did alright finding someone better for himself all on his own.”

Migs’s stomach flips at her words. She ain’t the type to blow smoke up someone’s ass with a compliment if she didn’t mean it.

She slaps him on the back and uses his shock to pull him in close. 

“Still,” she starts, voice deadly calm. “You hurt him? There is nowhere in the Galaxy you’ll be able to hide from me. Got it?” He just nods, his words still stuck somewhere in his throat by whatever the fuck emotions hearing her _approval_ of him have dredged up.

“Glad that’s settled!” She says clapping him on the back forcefully once more before shoving him away from her with a laugh. “Better get back to him lover boy, don’t want him to get lonely without you.”

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am,” he agrees, giving her a mock salute. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she shoos him out of the room. 

Now that is one order he's eager to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this then back to my side projects for another week or so most likely. Hope this little update is satisfactory. Might start time jumping soon with these chapters--if I keep at it day by day I'll never get to anything haha. Anywho, much love, and I hope everyone has a lovely day/week. ^_________^
> 
> Edit: In case anyone else is also a dirty, filthy multi shipper like me--I am not hating on Omera at all. I'm down for _literally anyone_ who would make Din happy--full stop. Just this is something I have thought about a lot. The difference in making him chose between his creed and her--we respect the creed in this house and Migs giving back his helmet? His creed? That really resonated with me. Anyway, love and peace y'all <3


	10. Acceptance and Adjustments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everybody! ^_^
> 
> Time jumps ahoy me mateys~
> 
> This chapter is like 90% pulled out of nowhere. Just sat down and started writing and was surprised by what came out. Legit the only part I had planned? Was the last line. xD

Cara ended up leaving the next morning on the ship the New Republic sent to transport Gideon back to the core worlds for trial and sentencing. Migs was with Bo-Katan and her wife in thinking not spacing the asshole then and there was a huge mistake, but he just had his record cleaned—be a shame to get a black mark on it so soon. Besides, it was a good show of faith on their part, might make the New Republic more favorable in their dealings with the Mandalorians as a people, and as a nation.

Even as Cara led Gideon away in chains the knowing smile like he had the upper hand—even in that moment—didn’t fade. It was unnerving, and while it still felt like a mistake Migs was glad to be rid of him. There was the saying of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer but Gideon?

Migs wanted to be as far away from that one as possible. A sentiment he shared with his husband. 

Din and Cara said their goodbyes, though she promised to visit soon as she was able to check up on the 'love birds’. She went on to complain that she wouldn’t know when she would be dropping by as someone just had to elope with a convicted murder and that there was ‘so goddamn much paperwork’ waiting for her.

Migs just grinned completely unrepentant earning a rude hand gesture tossed over her shoulder as she left. 

Clearly, she was starting to come around to him.

The ship felt emptier without her there, now he was the only non-Mandalorian aboard. He hadn’t ever gone out of his way to speak with Cara while she had been aboard but there was something comforting in knowing that there was at least one person who had his back on the whole ‘I don’t know what the hell is going on’ thing.

The odd man out feeling got even worse when the rest of Bo-Katan’s clan arrived in _their_ cruiser. There weren't a lot of them, ten in all, but it made Migs feel like even more of an outsider than he already did. 

He wasn’t a coward and always went out of his way to make conversation—inadvisable as it was at times. So he was often hanging around the common areas of the ship. Some of the Mandos were friendlier than others, some not so much. 

Still, every single one of them was nicer than Bo-Katan’s wife so that was nice. 

One of them turned out to be a pretty alright guy, for someone willingly hanging out with Bo-Katan anyway. Axe Woves had been a part of Bo-Katan’s team since the early days. Since before the Purge even.

He loved to drink and play darts and was damn good at it both. Couldn’t beat Migs while they were both sober but with a few drinks in him? Light years ahead of Migs. 

Unfortunately, he was also good at holding his tongue even with a few drinks in him. Migs couldn’t get so much as a word extra out of the guy that Ax didn’t want to tell him. Not that Migs knew enough to even know what he didn’t know.

Cool guy though.

Din would come with him sometimes and he would try, but they all acted differently when he was around. His refusal to remove his helmet, the dark saber at his hip, and his ignorance in their ways made him stand apart almost as much as Migs did—but worse in a way.

They expected Migs to not know things, he wasn’t a Mandalorian after all, but with Din? There were all these expectations they had for him—both as a fellow Mandalorian and as their Mand’alor.

Not everyone, hell not even most, meant it bad. Many got quiet around him out of respect for his station, maybe even in awe. But it still hurt to watch Din flounder under their stares. 

A Mando decked out in that much beskar would have been used to the staring—but not from his own people. Not somewhere he should feel welcome, and at home. There wasn’t jack shit they could do about it though. Just have to wait until people get used to him and his different way of doing things.

When he wasn’t putting his nose into other people’s business Migs kept himself busy around the ship. As the only person on board with any real experience with Imperial ships, even his subpar knowledge was highly sought out. 

He was a sharpshooter, not an engineer, but he knew his way around an engine. Wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. His job as a kid was helping out a local mechanic for spare cash. It was dirty, tiring work for a kid but he didn’t mind. Always liked taking things apart and seeing how they worked before putting them back together.

Didn’t hurt that the gruff mechanic was a whole hell of a lot nicer than his old man so he had gone out of his way to find tasks to stick around longer and spend less time at home. As a kid, he thought he was being real clever and sneaky about it but in hindsight, it was obvious what he was doing. Still, the guy never called him on it and instead found more and more complex tasks for Migs to take a crack at to take up his time.

Those skills he learned there were what landed him the working sentence on the scrap heap planet, which as much as he hated that place? It sure as fuck was better than where the others got sent to. 

The New Republic liked to pretend it was so much better than the Empire—and okay, in a lot of ways it was—but they still kept the same prisons running. Sure, they made a show of making them more humane, more creature comforts, but at the end of the day? 

It was all still slave labor on planets not even Gungans would deem habitable. Yeah, okay they were a lot less likely to get shot by their guards, and the food wasn’t entirely awful—but still. 

Mining on volcano worlds? Deep drilling in search of durelium on planets that made _Hoth_ look like a resort? Call Migs crazy but that didn’t really seem like the sort of thing the New Republic should be doing if they were so much better than the Empire.

Not that Migs missed the Empire or anything. Far fucking from it. Anyone still fighting on the side of the Empire these days was either a sick son of a bitch just looking for an excuse to cause mayhem or beyond desperate. Even rats knew when to abandon a sinking ship, and the Empire was barely treading water these days.

He wasn’t one for wholesale slaughter—blowing up that base on Morak was an outlier—but he didn’t feel guilty about it. Far from it. The kinds of people looking to repeat Operation Cinder? 

They deserved a taste of their own medicine.

So no, he didn’t want the Empire back but all the ‘holier than thou’ bullshit the New Republic liked to spout pissed him off. Yeah sure they’re better than the guys who blow up planets and all, but the bar was set so fucking low it’s embarrassing. 

They still turned a blind eye to the very much still active slave trade out on the rim. Sure they outlawed it, but they did fuck all to enforce it beyond their precious core worlds. They had the manpower, the ships to do it but they didn't. Always more pressing matters needing their attention they would say when it was brought up but the truth of it was they didn’t care.

Much like the Empire, they viewed the people living out on the rim as second class citizens. Their representation was a fucking joke. Ain’t none of the people speaking for them on the core worlds ever had to struggle to survive out on the rim and it showed time and time again as votes were cast. 

None of them really mattered to the New Republic. Sure, some bleeding hearts probably did care—their leader was definitely the type to—but those holding the power? They made sure to grease enough palms that things stayed the way they always have been out here. 

Made sure those few bleeding hearts never saw the truth of life out on the rim.

And that is exactly why the broken remnants of the Empire were making a comeback. They no doubt had a hand in making sure palms are greased, but Migs knew that ain’t the half of it. 

As a rule, people were greedy, selfish assholes. The ones in power? Doubly so.

His opinion on the New Republic was one he shared with the Mandos aboard. Their homeworld was slagged, their people scattered to the ends of the Galaxy—and what has the New Republic done to aid them? A couple of shitty laws that almost no one would have heard of let alone hold up unless there was something in it for them?

Fuck the Empire, and fuck the New Republic. 

The Rim’s been surviving on its own for thousands of years and it still will be when the New Republic gets taken down by the next power hungry government bent on galactic domination. 

Don’t get him wrong, he didn’t _want_ that to happen or anything like that but it just seems inevitable to him. It is called the _New_ Republic after all. The first one got a good run in, and this one started off with promise but turning a blind eye on the Rim is gonna end up being the thing that brings them down.

Sharks lived out on the Rim, endlessly swimming in search for just a hint of blood, of weakness. And the New Republic? It had never solidified its hold on the galaxy. Migs was standing on a goddamn Imperial light cruiser for fuck’s sake!

How many more of them were out there? How many were being built at this very moment? The base on Morak was just a small gear in the Empire’s machine. How many more bases are out there hiding on the Rim? 

He had shot Hess dead in a fit of rage, justifiable but stupid. He should have found out more about the plan that would ‘make Operation Cinder seem tame’. He hadn’t been thinking at the time blinded by his rage, reminded of all that he lost when he heard the Butcher speak of the dead.

Not that he would have been able to do anything mind you.

He’s just one asshole, ain’t much he’d have been able to do on his own—or even would have wanted to. He did what he did on Morak for personal reasons and nothing else. 

Never claimed to be a good guy, far from it. He wanted those responsible for Burnin Konn dead. Simple as that.

He and politics had never mixed, he wasn’t lying when he told Din that he joined up with the Imperials for adventure and the chance to blow some shit up. It was never about ‘protecting the values of the Empire’ or whatever the enlistment ads bullshit tried to use to entice kids to join.

But somehow Migs found himself interested now. Maybe it is a sign he was getting old—politics was always an old man’s game. Something for old men to bitch about while getting drunk at a bar. 

Or maybe it’s because he’s married to the fucking Mand’alor. That just _might_ have something to do with it.

It took a few days for some of the members of Bo-Katan’s clan to warm up to him, others heard about what he did on Morak and welcomed him as easy as that. Either way by the middle of the week when he walked into a common room they didn’t either get quiet or switch to Mando’a. So he overheard a lot of discussions on the New Republic, its future and what impact its inevitable fall would have on _their_ future.

He learned a lot about politics, more than he ever thought he would want to know in just two short weeks. Aside from spending time with Din, fixing minor issues around the ship, and finding new ways to piss off Bo-Katan's wife he didn’t really have much else to do. 

So he listened, he learned, and he wasn’t afraid to voice his own opinion—but you know what the weird thing was? That they actually listened to what he had to say. Not about everything of course, but he knew the Rim as well as any of them.

And he knew Imperials.

How they thought, what kinds of plans they might make. Their fallbacks, and how the ranks were taught to worship the leaders almost as if they were Gods amongst men. 

Migs was always too smart to fall for that shit. He played along sure, but he never bought into it, unlike nearly all of his squad had. He had a healthy fear and respect for those above him, especially the ones like Gideon. 

But fear would only buy you loyalty for so long. All the ones left, the remnants of the Empire? They were the truly dangerous ones. The fanatics, the maniacs, and those who held them on short leashes. 

Where he had a growing interest Din was on the other side of it. It was clear he had no head for politics, nor any interest to learn. Now his disinterest could be excused and explained away for mourning the loss of his foundling—but Migs knows that ain’t it. 

Well, not all of it anyway.

Din confessed as much to Bo-Katan on his third failed attempt to get her to take the dark saber. He argued he was unfit to lead their people, he didn’t even yet understand their language let alone how they should govern themselves. 

Her lips had twitched into a bittersweet ghost of a smile before she told him that his admission that he was lacking? Was something that made him all the more desirable to have as their Mand’alor. 

“That makes no fucking sense,” Migs had said, something Din agreed with although much more politely. 

“Power corrupts nearly all those who seek it, but those who have it thrust upon them, unwillingly taking up the mantle? Those are the leaders worth following into battle.” 

Which you know, it wasn’t great to hear that every time Din had been proclaiming how unworthy he was it was just making the rest of the Mandalorians like him more. 

Fucking figures.

Not that Migs disagreed with the logic behind it. It was rare a good man sought to lord over someone else, ironic that they would be the most suited for it. 

She had then gone on to explain that while he was Mand’alor he did not hold absolute power. There would be a council of elders, the heads of each clan there to guide him in his decisions. In the past Mand’alors of old would not do more than preside over the council only speaking up to break ties or offer other insights. 

Unlike the Supreme Chancellor, the President, or even the Princess—a Mand’alor was not expected to rule alone, nor would his people desire him to. The title of Mand’alor belonged to the one who unites their people, not to rule over them, but instead to guide them to a better future.

To pool their resources, their abilities, and their people so they can all achieve more together rather than as separate clans. 

These were all things both Migs and Din learned from Bo-Katan’s daily history lessons she taught to Din. She had fought at first when Migs had expressed interest in learning, but all he had to do was point out that Din would just tell him later anyway. It was better he got it straight from her rather than risk Din missing out on something important.

Besides, he had the better head for it, a fact that was rapidly becoming common knowledge much to Din’s shame. 

She let him stay from then on without argument. In fact, soon enough the lessons seemed to be more for Migs than they were for Din—something they both teased Din about. 

That’s another weird benefit to their lessons was that somewhere along the line he and Bo-Katan learned to tolerate each other. Migs doesn’t think he’d ever go so far as to say he _liked_ her, but they developed a mutual respect for one another. 

She respected his loyalty to Din, appreciated his assistance with the cruiser, and valued his input on how Imperials and some of the criminal underground that runs the Rim might think. While he respected her devotion to her people, liked the way she spits angry curses whenever they speak of the Empire too long—but the biggest reason he stopped hating her?

The nightly Mando’a lessons with Din. 

As busy as she must have been she always showed up at the same hour every evening to help Din with learning to read their language. With how aggressive and angry she always acted Migs had assumed she would make a terrible teacher.

The first time she showed up at their door to help Din learn Migs had whispered that he thought they’d be better off on their own. Din’s lips were pinched in agreement but he said it would be rude to decline her offer so they had let her in. 

She surprised them both with her patience, it was not her who got frustrated and showed their temper.

It was Din.

To go from being a badass bounty hunter that spoke half a dozen languages to a grown ass man struggling with his _own_ alphabet? Migs can’t even imagine how shitty that must have made him feel. 

He already got so much shit from pretty much everyone they have met for his ignorance in the ways of the galaxy, politics, the fact that he has asked not one but _two_ different lightsaber wielding badasses if they were Jedi? Even Migs had to give him shit for that once Din had mentioned the _other_ Jedi he had first taken Grogu to.

Seriously, he likes the guy, but Din wasn’t earning any awards for his ability to spot obvious things. He knew languages, all there was to know about keeping a junker flying, and was a master of kicking ass—but his knowledge beyond survival and providing for those in his care? 

Fucking embarrassing. 

His tribe really fucked him over big time with his education beyond morals, values, and death dealing. Another thing he and Bo-Katan agreed on, though Migs kept that opinion far away from Din’s ears.

They ain’t had a fight yet since they got married and he’d rather his opinions about Din’s tribe—his family—weren’t the first one. Touchy subject with anyone, let alone someone like Din.

Before he found Grogu he had no one outside of his tribe. He had allies, informants, all those contacts you need to make it as a bounty hunter—but he had no friends to speak of. Din never so much as admitted that, but Migs wasn’t stupid and could put two and two together.

Everyone Din talked about? He mentioned meeting them after he found the kid. It was like he lived and breathed solely to support his tribe before that. 

Migs really hoped someone from Din’s tribe survived because he had a bone to pick with them over how Din was treated. He liked to think he would be reasonable and wait to hear an explanation before he went off on them but he knew that was a pipe dream if there ever was one.

Migs control his temper? Fat fucking chance.

Especially since he had to bite his tongue to keep from ranting up a storm whenever Din dropped off a tidbit of what it was like growing up in the tribe. Like how only one of them was allowed above ground at a time. 

Fucking what?

Din, after he saw Migs’s expression of utter confusion, had gone on to explain it was to keep the Covert safe. That they would be hunted and forced to move if any were to find out a whole group of Mandalorians were hiding beneath the city. 

It made sense right after the Purge, it did. But that didn’t change the fact that it was completely and utterly fucked that Din grew up unground, without ever seeing the light of day—without feeling the warmth of sunlight on his face. That he never would because the only way he was _allowed_ to go above ground?

Was after he had already taken the creed and proved himself worthy to succeed the last provider for the Covert.

Fucking hell.

The worst part of it wasn’t that it happened, it was that Din grew up thinking it was normal. Even now he didn't see anything wrong with how he was raised.

Maybe they really had to do that for a time after the Purge but it had been decades. The Empire was greatly diminished and had far bigger things to worry about than finishing off the last Mandalorians clinging to life at the edges of the galaxy. Beskar was a rare and valuable commodity but Mandalorians were well known throughout the galaxy for their deadliness and fierce protectiveness over their own, so hiding their numbers was actually detrimental to their safety.

Plenty had taken one look at all that shiny beskar Din was wearing and tried to kill him for it. Din was a badass with a formidable rep but at the end of the day? He was just one guy, and if he were any other man his number would have come up by now. 

It was simple math, to a criminal, the value of the haul versus what you stood to lose getting it. Din was a walking fortune, that much beskar was sure to make even the most cautious of criminals consider taking the risk. 

Migs had considered it himself once upon a time after all.

But if Din strolled into a place with the rest of the Mandos at his back? You can bet your ass not a single fucker would even _consider_ trying them. Hell, the New Republic could hire them out just to wander around the seedier parts of the galaxy and the scum would be tripping over themselves in their hurry to get away from whatever the hell a whole group of Mandos could be up to.

Bo-Katan was of the same mind as him with a show of their numbers being to their advantage rather than against it—unsurprisingly it was something all of her crew agreed on. It was only Din who disagreed, but he did agree to send out the call for _all_ Mandalorians to return home. 

Out of a desire for secrecy Din had originally wanted the message to be a tight beam, heavily encoded so no one without Mandalorian armor and its passcodes could receive the message. Unfortunately, that would have made those who lacked a clan to protect them or armor, like Fett, unaware of the call to return home. He could no more abandon them than he could any of their number. A Mandalorian was more than their armor, more than just the one creed to follow. 

As he was no less a Mandalorian than Bo-Katan, nor Fett, any who were forced to forsake their creed as a means of survival were to be welcomed back. Sins absolved. The future of their people was of prime importance, nothing else mattered. 

This was the way. 

It really was a beautiful speech Din had sent off to all corners of the galaxy—in both Common and Mando’a a week after Bo-Katan’s cruiser and people had arrived and they had the firepower to deal with whatever becomes of their message.

It was five days after the message was sent and they had received not one word of reply, which made perfect sense to Migs considering how secretive and suspicious Mandos were. But still, the waiting made him antsy, made the whole damn cruiser tense with anticipation. 

With worry.

With each day that passed without a response, a darkness fell on the ship. What if there was no answer because they were all that was left? Not even enough to fully staff either one of their cruisers. 

It made his stomach twist just thinking about it. He was one of only a few thousand who had lived through Burnin Konn and he carried the weight of that every damn day. The crushing weight that only a few remained who could ever hope to understand the pain and anguish he went through on a daily basis as a survivor.

But if it was just the eleven Mandos aboard and Fett, wherever the hell he had gone off to, and that was it? Fuck, what would they even do? 

Sure they could all get foundlings, but even still with so few of them how could they ever hope to rebuild? It would take a thousand years before they’d even be counted as endangered rather than basically extinct as far as the rest of the Galaxy was concerned. 

No one was talking about it, but the silences were growing heavier and heavier by the day. The strain was visible on their faces, but whatever spark of determination that had them surviving the Purge was still there.

Still shining with hope and as dim as the light got? It would never fade completely. Migs wasn't much for poetic shit, but even he had to admit their perseverance, their sheer fucking will to flip the galaxy the finger and keep going when everyone expected them to roll over and accept their fate? 

It was fucking beautiful. Rebels to the end.

A week went by since the message was sent and there is an air of acceptance onboard. A subtle shift of focus. Where they once spoke of planetary defenses and the logistics of making Mandalore habitable once more they instead speak of foundlings. 

Of converting the barracks aboard to house the many foundlings they will need. Migs is often consulted on what systems and rooms could be best repurposed to serve to make the cruiser into a _home_ rather than just a transport.

It’s genius in its simplicity. If there really were so few of them it would be detrimental to even bother with a colony either on Mandalore or somewhere else. They would be spending precious resources and the even more limited manpower just to keep the colony functioning whereas if they lived onboard a ship built to comfortably house 750 crew and hold up to 100 passengers?

A ship that Gideon had already taken great effort in automating with the limited manpower the remnants of the Empire had? They could do a lot with that.

Bo-Katan’s cruiser was no slouch either. It would be able to provide much needed firepower and mobility to complement the much larger light cruiser.

The quiet mood that had overtaken the ship was slowly lifting as they came to accept their harsh reality and adapt their plans accordingly. Migs would never, ever tell another soul but he was glad that they were giving up on Mandalore. He ain’t superstitious but that fucking place was haunted.

They still sent teams down every day to collect all that they could from the great library and a couple of the Mandos spent nearly all day and night for days on end working to get the beskar doors free though the work wasn’t going well on that end. To be fair though? Six inches of solid beskar 20 feet tall and 10 feet wide? Going to take a miracle to get that free.

Be easier to set charges and blast out the surrounding walls but as of yet, they were hesitant to destroy that much of what is probably the last holy place for their people. Bo-Katan’s wife was in charge of the recovery of the beskar as the leading expert left so she spent a great deal of her time on the surface and far away from Migs, something he was really starting to appreciate.

He still didn't know her name and at this point? It’s sort of turned into a game and he didn't want to know. They’re like oil and water—two things that just couldn't mix no matter how long you stirred them together. They’d tolerate one another if they had to but that is the best they can do. 

The best either of them wanted to do.

Migs had been getting pretty chummy with a lot of the Mandos aboard, downright friendly with a few. It was good to see at least one face that hated him when he walked the halls of the cruiser. Just didn’t sit right with him without at least someone giving him the stink eye.

Din thought he was being ridiculous and tried on one occasion to tell Migs her name but Migs wouldn’t have it. He had covered Din’s mouth with his hands before he could get past the first syllable. Din’s eyes had grown round in surprise and his cheeks darkened with blood.

It was the first time Migs had touched Din’s lips and it wasn’t even intentional.

All thoughts of what they were talking about before went right out the window as unimportant as they both fumbled around embarrassed. Migs had tried to take his hands back, he hadn’t asked for permission after all—but Din had caught one of his wrists between his hands and held it close.

Without breaking eye contact he brought Migs’s hand up and placed a kiss against his palm—the first Din had ever given him. His cheeks were darker than Migs had ever seen and the hand holding his wrist trembled faintly but his eyes were determined. 

His husband was always so brave.

It made his heart hurt to look at Din sometimes. God, if he wasn’t the luckiest son of a bitch in the whole galaxy to be able to call this man his. 

Migs reached over with his free hand grabbing Din’s other hand and bringing it up to his own face. He could feel the sharp intake of breath against his palm and the tightening of Din’s fingers around his wrist before they both held their collective breaths as Migs hesitated for a moment, his lips just barely _not_ touching for a singular moment in time before he closed the distance.

Din made a sound of surprise as Migs kissed his palm, momentarily shocked. His eyes grew dark and his pulse raced underneath Migs’s fingers and then he too was pressing a kiss into Migs’s palm.

A shared kiss, their first that wasn’t a keldable kiss. The first with their lips, something Migs would be lying if he said he hadn’t been craving to try at least once. 

Din’s palm was rough with the calluses of a man more than familiar with blasters and untold weaponry—far rougher than his lips would be but that couldn’t stop Migs from imagining that it was Din’s lips he was kissing instead. 

Especially not with the feeling of those soft lips pressed against his palm. 

Their dance, their courtship with one another had been anything but normal. Who gets married before they even know each other's names? Or before they’ve even shared their first kiss? But you know what? Migs wouldn’t change anything about it for all the credits in the galaxy. 

Din was special, unique—so why wouldn’t their relationship be the same? Some cultures and races had been doing the whole arranged marriages thing for thousands of years and it seemed to have been working for them. Migs hadn’t really ever given it much thought one way or another—never expected to get married after all—half the people he knew who had ‘fallen in love’ didn’t end up with great relationships so maybe there was something to growing and nurturing love instead.

As he has been with Din, subconsciously or not. This thing—this feeling that has been growing between them ever since Morak? It’s not love—at least not yet.

But it could be.

It scared the hell out of him at first, but ever so slowly he was getting used to the idea. Accepting the inevitability that he would fall for Din—because who the hell wouldn’t? The guy was basically perfect if you asked Migs. 

And this not-exactly-a-kiss-but-it-felt-like-one? It was perfect too.

Which is of course why they were interrupted in that perfect moment by the console beeping in warning before Axe's voice came over the speakers.

“A ship has just entered the system and they are broadcasting Mandalorian call signs,” The hand against his lips twitched in surprise. Migs pressed one last kiss into Din’s palm before he reluctantly released Din’s hand and had his own released in turn. 

“I’ll be right up,” Din spoke into the mic at the console after Migs had stepped out of his personal space. His eyes never left Migs’s even as he spoke. It wasn’t just Migs feeling this then, that much was clear from the intense look in Din’s eyes. 

Migs was the first to look away. 

He grabbed Din’s helmet and held it out for him, a feeble excuse but one Din would not call him on. He took the helmet without comment and put it on, both of them breathing a little easier with the barrier between them.

Migs reached out and squeezed Din’s hand, whatever happened, he wouldn't be alone. Tension bled out of Din’s frame as he returned the gesture. They shared a nod before letting their hands fall to the side as they stepped out of their room ready to face whatever might come.

Together.

Though when they got to the hanger Migs could honestly say he was surprised by what greeted them. He had seen a variety of Mandos but none like this one. This one was _huge_ , easily a full head taller than the next tallest person in the room—and he was built like a tank. 

Not to mention the fucking minigun strapped to his back like it was a personal weapon and not something that should be mounted to a fucking ship. 

Just who the fuck was this guy?

Din took a step forward, no hesitation, and no fear. Migs, along with the rest of the Mandos present watched warily. Even with the lot of them, the guy could do serious damage with that weapon if he wanted. 

The blue helmeted giant had glanced around the room as if checking for targets but when he spotted Din he did not once look away. Their entire frame, all 6 and a half feet of it, turned to face Din. 

It should have been intimidating—Migs sure as shit would have been intimidated having something that big and dangerous focused on him—but if anything Din seemed to relax. His shoulders lighter than Migs was used to seeing outside the privacy of their room.

It hit Migs then as he watched the two approach each other—they hadn’t made a move to take off their helmet. They must be from Din’s tribe.

Thank fuck Din isn’t the last of them, Migs thought even as he worried what news they would bring of the rest—if there were any other survivors.

The giant reached out his arms wide and Din returned the gesture as they stepped into each other's space. They clasped each other’s arms, a common greeting between Mandos but Migs was shocked to see the giant bend down and press their helmet against Din’s.

It was something Migs had only seen between couples before this moment—just who the hell was this guy? And why the hell did Din return the gesture so easily? Din had said the keldable kiss was not just a kiss, that it could be a greeting between people who were close—between family. Migs knew it was stupid to feel any sort of jealousy but he had gotten used to being the only one Din let close and it made something ugly curl in his stomach just the same to see him reaching for someone—anyone who wasn't _him_.

“Paz.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another mixed bag of research and me making up stuff cause I liked it better than canon.
> 
> Hope there aren't too many tense issues for this one--I struggle with time jumps so my bad. (roughly 2-3 weeks pass during this chapter in case it isn't clear) I'll be re-reading this 23897489 times after I post to try and catch the many I'm sure I have missed. 
> 
> :3 :3 :3 :3 :3
> 
> uhh in case anyone is worried about this turning into one of those 3-way jealously triangles—rest easy it ain't gonna be like that. Migs is having a knee jerk reaction like a dumbass—he'll get sorted right away. 
> 
> Also, there are like 5 different memes hiding in this because I couldn't help myself. I regret nothing.
> 
> Hope to have another chapter soon-ish but my brain is in chaos mode where I want to hop between this and a few smaller projects as the mood strikes me so probably won't be another update for a week (but hopefully sooner!) or so as I finish up the last of them. :)
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	11. It's not as crazy as it sounds—Okay, maybe it is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is. . .all over the place. Went in weird directions I wasn't expecting.
> 
> As usual, this is half researched to match canon and half made the hell up cause info was either lacking or I disliked canon. :)

“What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?” Paz asks after pulling back from the—Migs can’t even think it—the _greeting_. Though he does not step back out of Din’s personal space. Mandalorians value their personal space more than most in the galaxy, him staying inside Din’s personal bubble speaks of great familiarity. 

It makes something primal rear its ugly head within Migs. He grinds his teeth together pushing it down. Now is not the fucking time for alpha male bullshit.

“Mand’alor—really?” Paz's tone is half worn down and half amused. Migs has only known Din a short while, and his ability to get into shit is something else. He wonders what sort of problems Din had found himself in the middle of when he was younger. Paz’s tone makes it sound like Din was a handful.

Paz taps the darksaber at Din’s hip with his hand in question. Din hands it over without a second thought. Din hates that thing and is always trying to pawn it off on someone but no one is stupid enough to take it—maybe they can trick this Paz guy into taking it. He probably wouldn’t know any better considering they’re both from the same sheltered clan. 

Migs knows Din wouldn’t go for that idea. ‘It wouldn’t be honorable’ blah blah blah. Being honorable is great and all, but come on—Din’s doing better but he’d rather live in anonymity than the spotlight so yeah Migs is all for sticking some other poor sucker with the gig and bailing. 

Paz lights up the darksaber and makes an appreciative sound in his throat. He makes a few practice swings after stepping out of Din’s bubble—finally—but all too soon clicks it off and hands it back to Din. Migs knew it was a pipe dream to even hope, oh well.

“Your ability to find the impossible never ceases to impress. I never thought I would see the darksaber again,” Paz says. Wait—

“What do you mean _again_?” Migs asks, suddenly very confused. “I thought it had been lost—that fucking Gideon had stolen it from your leader years ago.” 

The blue helmet turns to look at Migs for the first time. Even though the helmet he can tell the guy is giving him a _look_. You know, one of those ones where you're trying to light someone on fire with your mind? Yeah, Migs won’t lie, it’s a little intimidating—but that sure as fuck has never stopped him from opening his big fat mouth.

“I thought the Death Watch and the, what do you call them? The regular Mandos? Whatever you call them, I got the impression you two didn’t exactly mix,” the blue helmet turns to face Din.

“Who is this _outsider_ that speaks of things he cannot understand and with such disrespect?” He demands, voice angry. Din lets out a sigh.

“This is Migs Mayfeld, we are _tome_ ,” Migs would swear he can hear the gears grinding to a stop inside the big guy’s head. He just keeps staring at Din for a moment waiting for a better explanation than that. “He did not mean to speak with disrespect—that is just how he speaks. Bluntly and without thinking of what his choice of words could imply.”

Ouch.

He’s not wrong though, Migs would be the first to admit it. Though to hear his _husband_ of all people lay it out plain like that? Kinda hurts. Maybe he really should work on getting a brain-to-mouth filter.

The blue helmet turns to look at Migs once more. Migs offers him an apologetic smile and a shrug. It’s true, there's no reason to deny it.

“Yeah, sorry. I wasn’t trying to be a dick,” Migs not so subtly moves to stand closer to Din. Not cause he’s posturing or anything. He just likes being near Din is all. “Was just surprised _you_ would know about it when Din had never even heard of it.”

“My eldest brother once claimed the darksaber and title of Mand’alor,” Migs blinks at the Mando in front of him stupidly. 

“Fucking what?” 

Din jerks next to him, apparently just as surprised as Migs is. Just who the fuck is this guy? The other Mandalorians in the shuttle bay seem just as surprised. Many subtly move into ready positions. 

“Paz Vizsela, brother of Pre Vizsela,” Bo-Katan’s voice breaks the silence but not the tension as she walks down the steps into the hanger bay. If anything, the heat goes up in the room. Paz stands up straight staring dead on at her as she approaches. “Once the leader of the Death Watch and Mand’alor. Though he didn’t last very long did he?”

“Bo-Katan Kryze, sister of Satine Kryze,” he answers the greeting in kind. Bo-Katan’s lips thin at the mention of her sister’s name. “Once a leader of the New Mandalorians and Duchess. Betrayed by her own kin.”

What the fuck.

Migs did not wake up this morning prepared for some Mando civil war bullshit. He thought the worst thing he was going to have to do was spend a couple of hours crawling through the ship’s plumbing systems to double-check that the water recycling was up to snuff now that it’s more than just the four of them taking long showers. 

He sure as fuck didn’t think he might get caught in _another_ stand off. Oh well, it was a nice vacation while it lasted, Migs thinks as he rolls his shoulders. Hands near the blasters he doesn’t take off unless he’s in the safety of their room. Too bad everyone else is just as armed—if not more so than he is. 

Damn Mandos and having weapons be an _actual_ part of their religion. 

“I’m surprised you survived the fall of Mandalore,” Paz says his deep voice booming in the silence. “Why are you still breathing if Din is the one holding the darksaber, _dar’manda_?”

Bo-Katan’s wife down right _growls_ , the three Mandos present put their hands over their Vibro blades, but Bo-Katan makes a cutting motion with her hand. 

“I had to choose between it and my people. The creed is clear—the tribe’s wellbeing must always come first,” Bo-Katan says, her lip curling up into a cruel smile. “I am no _dar’manda_ child of the watch, no more than you are—standing before us with all your clan dead. 

“Tell me, when did the Death Watch start letting cowards into their ranks?”

“I am no coward!” Paz shouts, taking a half step forward, his Vibro blade drawn. The other Mandos draw theirs and Migs has his blaster in his hands as his eyes rapidly flick about the room. This is far from ideal.

Din moves to stand between the two groups, his hands held out between them. Beseeching for a peace that might not be possible. Darksaber ignited and held high. 

“There is to be no fighting between us, we can’t afford any more bloodshed. Not when our numbers are so few,” Din’s voice is commanding and strong. “Is that understood?”

It has been a while since Migs had heard him like this, he had almost forgotten how chilling Din can get when he’s in boss mode. Din had lost his footing ever since he had to let Grogu go, trapped within his own grieving. This is the first he’s even raised his voice since then. 

Hell, this is his first command as Mand’alor—and it’s to keep his people from killing each other? Well, fuck if they aren’t off to a good start. 

Silence follows his command, the Mandos subtly look to Bo-Katan for guidance instead of following their leader’s command. Well, at least now they know how the cards will land when push comes to shove.

That’s nice. 

All their talk of following ‘the way’, which includes listening to the Mand’alor, and here they are ready to forsake it all over some stupid insult? What a bunch of bullshit. 

“As you say Mand’alor,” Bo-Katan says bowing her head in a surprising move. It takes Migs aback, his knee-jerk reaction is to wonder what kind of game she is playing at. He’s been around her for a few weeks now slowly getting to know her—he doesn’t think she’s playing a game, not this time.

Sure she’s a major bitch, and yeah she isn’t afraid to lie or trick to get what she wants—that’s how they’re all in this situation after all—but there is one thing she cares about above all else.

The survival of her people. 

If she wouldn’t fight and kill Din for the darksaber back when she didn’t even consider him a _proper_ Mandalorain or whatever—she sure as fuck isn’t going to do it now. 

Migs has seen her with Din during their Mando’a lessons. She is no stranger to teaching, her patience and kindness speaks of someone who genuinely _cares_. They’ve been getting along a lot better, searching for common ground instead of only looking at their differences. He had just started to hope that this all might work out.

He should have known better.

“Paz,” Din says, his tone begging the other man to obey even as his stance is at the ready for a fight when he shifts to face him. Migs doesn’t like that at all. 

Why would Din be ready to fight one of his own tribe? Out of everyone in the room, save for himself, Din should be able to trust Paz—shouldn’t he?

What kind of fucked up history do they have? Did they vie for the same spot with the tribe or something? Is it because of the darksaber—No, it wouldn’t be that simple.

It’s never that fucking simple with Mandos.

“Yes Mand’alor,” Paz agrees but he makes the title sound like an insult. A joke. Migs's eyes narrow and he clenches his jaw. Now is not the time to be fighting for his husband's honor or some stupid shit, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t want to. 

Paz puts away his Vibro blade and the other Mandos follow suit. 

“Thank you,” Din says, turning off the darksaber with his thumb and replacing it on his belt. His shoulders sag in relief. Right there with ya buddy, Migs thinks wiping a few drops of sweat off his brow after putting his blasters back in their holsters. 

“I live and breathe by the creed,” Paz starts seemingly out of nowhere. “I would have gladly have fought and died alongside my brothers and sisters. But I had a greater duty, that to the foundlings. The Armorer ordered me to take them and keep them safe. This is the way.”

An echo of his words from all the Mandos present. 

“They survived?” Din asks, spinning around. His hands reaching out as if to grab Paz before falling to his sides awkwardly. Migs steps a little closer and presses his shoulder against Din’s in a show of ‘publicly acceptable’ physical contact. He’d like to hold Din’s hand or something a little more meaningful than just this, but he’d rather not risk tossing any more oil near this fire waiting to happen—especially not if the big guy is even half as weird about PDAs as Din is. 

“All twelve of them and the Wren child are safely being watched over as we speak,” Paz says, his words cutting straight into the heart of every Mando aboard. Even Migs is not unaffected to know the kids made it out okay. 

Migs hadn’t even let himself consider the _children_ —that there would even be children. Din had never mentioned them, but then again if he thought they were all dead. . .fucking hell, no wonder he couldn’t hardly talk about his tribe.

Din acts like a puppet with its strings cut upon hearing the news. His weight resting heavily against Migs. He risks wrapping a hand around Din’s back in support, no one comments on it. Paz’s blue helmet tilts, catching the motion but that’s all that comes of it. 

Good, cause he ain’t about to let go.

“Who is watching them if you are here?” Din asks, hope in his words. 

“Vroth and Sabii are watching them. It was fortunate that their child came when it did, sparing them as they were off-world for the birthing. They returned some days later to find the covert abandoned save the Armorer. She left with them to the fallback location where I was waiting,” Paz tells them, Din twitches against his side at the mention of the Armorer. “Seventeen, that was once fifty, remain. A great loss.”

A terrible, unspeakable loss—but it more than doubles their numbers. Migs can see it in the other Mandos’ expressions as they slowly become hopeful. They had all assumed the worst when Din had briefly spoken about what he had found of his tribe in the tunnels beneath Nevarro.

“I had thought you all lost,” Din admits, his voice trembling even over the suit’s modulation. “I thought—I thought I had brought ruin down upon you all.” 

Fuck he sounds dangerously close to tears. That’s a no-fly-zone in public if there ever was one. Migs gives Din’s waist a squeeze before he’s stepping away and facing the increasingly awkward looking Mandos in the bay. He opens his mouth but Bo-Katan—and he’s really going to have to admit to liking her at this rate—speaks before he gets a chance.

“There is no threat and they have much to discuss that is not meant for our ears,” she says, already turning to leave. “You know where to find me once things are settled,” she tosses over her shoulder as she climbs the steps to the exit. 

Migs could just about kiss that woman—if both her wife and his husband wouldn’t kill him for it—he thinks as he watches them all file out of the hangar bay. 

“Did you want me to go too?” Migs asks, shaking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction the others had left. Fully expecting a yes for once. He strongly doubts that Paz would want an outsider around to talk about something so private, especially an outsider that’s as much of a dick as Migs has already proven to be. Paz tilts his helmet in confusion as he looks at Migs, a familiar motion. 

It really hits Migs then that these two must have known each other a long time. Maybe even most of Din’s life—they even have similar mannerisms. Migs had gotten used to being the only one who knew Din more than just at a surface level—now he’s the one out of the know.

It feels weird. Not entirely bad, he’s happy Din has someone here who _knows_ him. Someone who will understand him better than anyone else. That’s a good thing—no it’s fucking great, Din could really use that right now. 

So why does it make Migs feel like shit to know he’s only second best to someone now? Is he really that much of a jealous asshole? He’s never been like this before with anyone else he’s dated. 

So why now? Why with Din? It’s not just the feelings—he full on _loved_ Mica, said the words out loud and everything. What he feels for Din—it’s powerful, heady, and growing by the day—but it’s not there. 

Not yet.

The dark feeling in the pit of his stomach when he thinks of Din seeking comfort in Paz. . .it’s wrong. He knows it is. Even if they had some weird messed up on and off again relationship—it isn’t and never would be any of his business.

He doesn’t get to control someone’s past—no one does. He trusts Din, he would never do anything to _dishonor_ Migs. Besides, he’s Din’s first _everything_ and he knows it for a fact. You can’t fake that kind of awkward shyness. Not that his experience or lack thereof should be any factor whatsoever. He's never been one of those guys, so why now?

Fuck, he’s being stupid.

He needs to get his head on straight and examine why he would act like this now when he’s never done it before. Planning on doing just that he nods his head and takes a step towards the stairs but a gloved hand on his elbow stops him.

“Stay,” Din asks him, voice quiet over the speakers. Migs glances over at Paz expecting to see something in his body language frowning upon the PDA but he doesn’t get anything but a sense of confusion from the guy.

“You sure you don’t mind?” Migs asks, tipping his head towards Paz. “I know how you guys are with privacy, I won’t get all butthurt if you don’t want an outsider there.” He doesn’t have to mention how the display of emotion is doubly more private, but he doesn’t have to.

Paz tilts his head strangely again looking between Din and Migs.

“You two are _tome_ , I don’t know what Din has told you of our ways to make you think you are an outsider—but you are not,” Migs blinks, completely blindsided by that. “You are considered one, anywhere he goes, it is expected you are to follow should you choose it.”

“Ahh, don’t blame him,” Migs says, patting his hand over the top of Din’s where it stays on his arm. “There was a little confusion with the other Mandos—Mandalorians when we first met. Uhh, we worked it out but I wasn’t sure if it would be different since Din is the only one from your tribe I’ve met and he’s as different as can be compared to the others.”

Paz lets out a laugh that booms from his suit speakers.

“He was always different even within the Tribe itself,” Paz says, Migs shoots a look at Din but he’s stock still and not letting his body language give anything away. “You did well to not assume we would be alike.”

Yeah, they definitely had some kind of an on and off again thing—even if it was completely platonic there is a history there. So close one moment then ready to fight tooth and nail the next. 

“Always thought he was too soft to be a warrior,” Paz shrugs his shoulders. “But maybe that was what made him better. Why the Armorer had chosen him above all others—above _me_ —to be the face we showed above ground. He had not even earned his jetpack and still, he was chosen.”

Din starts in surprise. An unexpected compliment—even if it was delivered in a backhanded way. He guesses that makes sense, if this Paz guy got passed up on a what? A promotion cause of Din, someone he thought was weaker than him? That would be sure to cause a lot of bad blood. Hell, Migs has seen people shot over it back during his Imperial days.

“Paz—” Din starts, but a large hand held up stops him.

“But you know what was the worst part?” He asks, his tone betraying his mirth. “She was right. His first week out and he brought more home for the tribe than any who had come before him—more than even me.” He laughs and says something in Mando’a that Migs has no hope of understanding aside from “Mand’alor” and a general sense of cursing being involved. 

Din joins him with a small laugh, so it must have been meant well. 

Migs may not know shit for languages but one thing he’s well versed in is profanity. He’s proud to say that he knows how to curse up a storm and insult people’s mothers in over 20 languages. It’s kind of his thing. He makes a mental note to pester Din about teaching him the fun words in Mando'a later.

From there they decide to move to Paz’s ship. Partly due to Paz being distrustful of being on an Imperial cruiser surrounded by Mandos who clearly had no problem with attacking him over an insult and partly because Din expressed interest in stepping inside it again. 

It’s another junker, just like Din’s ship was though this one isn’t as bad as his was. The ship was old, probably passed down from person to person ever since the Purge. Now that Migs knows a little bit more about their history he feels bad for talking so much shit on Din’s ship. It probably was a sort of family heirloom.

Paz’s ship isn’t as cramped as Din’s was, they actually have room to sit in the common area. Din’s body posture relaxes subtly as they walk aboard the ship. Migs wonders if he’s thinking fondly of his own ship or if Paz had let him inside before and he is reliving a pleasant memory from his past.

Either way, Migs is happy to see him let a little of the weight off his shoulders.

Migs looks around the ship, it’s spartan just how Din’s was. Probably a Mando thing, they don’t really strike him as the decorating type. Well, maybe they count all the mounted weapons along the walls of the ship as decorations—weapons are a part of their religion after all. 

If that’s the case—Paz is a regular old homemaker with all the beauties he has mounted on his walls. Weapons may not be part of his religion, but Migs sure can appreciate a good blaster or—

“Is that an LD-1 target blaster rifle?” Migs asks in awe. He takes a step closer, squinting to get a better look at the oversized muzzle. “Shit, no—that’s a goddamn LD-1a! I never saw a real one. Seen the specs on them, of course, but we thought it was just a rumor—a prototype. God, she’s beautiful.” 

Migs walks over to it on autopilot, completely forgetting their circumstances in light of that beauty out on display. It looks to be in perfect working condition, not a spec of dirt or rust that Migs can see. He lets out an appreciative whistle.

“Please tell me it’s in working order—wait who am I fucking kidding? You’re Mandalorian. You probably used this thing to hunt down some poor asshole just last week,” Migs has to stop himself from reaching out. He wants to touch it so bad, but touching another man’s weapons?

He’d be better off just grabbing the guy’s dick. Weapons like this one? They’re personal, private—and that is just to a regular guy like Migs. To a Mando? Might actually qualify as sacrilege. 

He turns back around to see the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder just watching him as he makes an ass out of himself. Whatever, he’s not apologizing for fanboying over that fine piece of craftsmanship. 

Hey, maybe if he’s lucky that’ll be the gun Paz shoots him with if he ever steps out of line with Din. He jokingly thinks, his ever-present dark humor at work. Be quick and clean—probably better than he’d deserve if he ever did do something worth getting shot over but he ain’t worried. 

Not really. 

He ain’t planning on doing anything but make Din happy. He might tease him a little every now and then. More than likely get them both in trouble with his mouth, and he’s 100% going to piss off the wrong person from time to time—but he likes to think it’ll balance out. 

It’s the intentions that matter right?

“You know your rifles,” Paz says, sounding impressed and surprised. He takes a seat signaling them to join him. Din sits beside Paz on the right side of the square table and Migs sits across from Paz, his left to Din. He bumps his knee into Din's, wanting a point of contact between them. 

“Yeah, well I was a sharpshooter so I’d better,” Migs says, not thinking of his words. “They ain’t ever give us anything nice, but if you knew who’s palms to grease you could always find someone willing to part with a gun that wouldn’t jam every third shot. 

“Fucking Imperial weapons were the worst. Traded up as soon as I earned enough credits to get something decent. Was always partial to the X-45 sniper rifles myself. Clean shots and almost no recoil,” Migs says with a shake of his head. “That’s one thing I’ll never get back since he got me sent to prison. 

“Not that I didn’t fucking deserve it—because I did. But it’s whatever. All's well that ends well right?” Migs says with a laugh—but neither of them are laughing. 

Din has his head bowed with his helmet between both his hands. Every line of his body reeking of embarrassment. Migs can’t see Paz’s eyes but he gets the feeling he’s bouncing between staring at him and at Din based on the micro movements of the helmet. His hand, which lies on top of the table, keeps flexing into a fist and then relaxing.

“Guess I probably shouldn’t have said any of that,” Migs says cringing internally. “At least not to start off. Probably should have eased that into the conversation like a normal goddamn person right? 

“Well fuck, it’s, too late now,” Migs says, scrubbing a hand over his face before continuing. “Hi, I’m Migs Mayfeld. I’m an ex-Imperial sharpshooter, I first met Din on a gig where I betrayed him for a couple of extra credits and not a day goes by where I don’t regret it. 

“Luckily for us both? He kicked my ass seven ways to Sunday and I was the one who ended up locked up. Gave me a lot of time to reevaluate my life choices until one day this shiny asshole showed up and sprung me for some suicidal mission to save his kid.

“One thing led to another and now we’re happily married,” Paz jerks back slightly, looking ready to say something but Migs stops him while he still can. He wasn’t done. “I know that sounds crazy as fuck, cause it is—but I really am all in for the guy. I’ve got a lifetime of shit to make up for and I intend to spend as much of it as I can making things right.

“Giving Din the life he deserves and making sure he’s happy is my only real goal these days. What can I say? Getting soft in my old age, but if you still want to kick my ass after hearing that I don’t blame you but if you could try and avoid the face? Din already has to look at this mug—let’s not make it any uglier than it already is okay?”

Dead. Fucking. Silence. 

One beat, two beats, then three pass before the sound beskar hitting the table rings out in the ship. Din has let his helmet fall forward onto the table and is now covering the back of it with his arms. 

Paz looks between the two of them and lets out a bark of laughter.

“I can’t believe you found the only other person in the galaxy as crazy as you are and _chose_ him for _tome_ ,” Paz slaps a big hand against Din’s back. “Only you would get lost on a simple quest to return a foundling and end up here. As Mand’alor, married to an Imp, and with the previous Mand’alor on your council.

“I look forward to hearing you try to explain all. . . _this_ to the Armorer,” Din’s head pops back up to look at Paz. “Once I have determined it’s safe for them to answer the call that is.”

“It is safe,” Din says without hesitation. “The Mandalorians aboard do not follow the same creed as us, but they would never harm nor allow a foundling to come to harm. They would fight to the last to defend them.”

“Yeah,” Migs agrees, cutting in. “We have two cruisers staffed and at the ready. Ain’t nobody going to come at us without a fight. Plus we already discussed it—worse to worse those aboard Bo-Katan’s ship will sacrifice themselves to cover this one, where we planned to house all the little kiddos.”

“You have put much thought into this,” Paz says to Din, sounding surprised. “You were never very good at planning past an assault—not even an exit strategy. This is a pleasant surprise.”

Din is quiet for a moment as he looks at his hands and then over at Migs. 

“I have had to rethink a lot of things since you last saw me. I have new priorities and responsibilities. To our people,” he reaches over and lays a gloved hand on top of Migs’s where it rests on the table between them. “And to my clan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: Paz doing the Blinking guy gif every time someone _tries_ and _fails_ to properly explain how Din got so lost on the road of life that he ended up the Mand'alor, married to an Imp, and with Kryze, of all people, as a confidant.
> 
> Oh, and Migs doesn't know how bad of an insult dar'manda is so keep that in mind. (Basically calling someone a soulless creed breaker that won't get to join in their afterlife—you know, a _little bit_ more than just an insult)
> 
> Yeeting this without a third edit pass as I have things to do that will take up most all of my day and I'm impatient to post. xD So if there are errors I missed? I'm sorry I'll fix them later. As always though, more than welcome to point them out to me. :)
> 
> Going to purge the tags and reorder them so the pertinent ones are first. My joking/fun ones last. So uhh, yeah. Keep that in mind for future updates I guess? Also, I think I'll remove the "rating may change". Writing E is a lot of work and very time-consuming for me. This will just (eventually 2839745238975 years from now) have M romantic/tender stuff in it when we get there. xD  
>    
> ~~I'll just write more one shots if the urge to write more racy things arises~~
> 
> Speaking of that, there will be another delay in the next chapter as I have to finish up another project that has been slow going...for _reasons_. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> Catch y'all later and hope everyone has a lovely day/week. <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


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